The Breaking Waves
by Incanto
Summary: Good old fashioned, samurai kitsch, Azumanga style! Follow the adventures of a mysterious ronin [and her pigtailed companion] as she takes on the most powerful fighters of Tokugawa Japan...but what, exactly, is she after?
1. The Rectification of Names

AN: _I thought of having a prologue in which, say, Chiyo falls asleep after having watched too many samurai movies, but in the end that seemed superfluous—it should become clear pretty quickly what's going on_ :-)

_The story's outline is based very, very roughly on Eiji Yoshikawa's fictional life of Miyamoto Musashi—"inspired by," really—and at least at the beginning has a bit of chronological splicing, like a Tarantino film. Enjoy!_

* * *

1. The Rectification of Names

Clear weather, but cold. The men standing in the field wore thick cotton jackets over their _kimono_, and, while managing to keep their dignified postures, tried to rub their arms together a little. The only person who seemed unaffected by the cold was also the only woman present, standing a little apart from the others. On one side was a striking view of the foothills of the Kanagata range, tinted blue in the early light, and red where the rising sun fell on them; like a gentle sea that swelled underneath its surface, holding a violence that the slightest breeze would raise. This spectacle, that would have earned a look from even an uneducated peasant, and had any person of aesthetic sensibilities immediately on their knees, composing a poem or painting a sketch, this woman had resolutely turned her back on. She faced toward the woods, holding her elbows.

In the dirt ten paces away a standard was planted. A white design on blue, it showed two coiled snakes, each a symbol of wisdom—their intertwined tails represented the synthesis of ideas, the coming-together of seemingly antagonistic styles of combat, in which the current head of the House of Mizuhara took pride.

A man stood behind her. Without looking around she said:

"Speak."

The man, Masaki Oyama by name, said: "She's late."

Another man of the entourage, overhearing them, joked loudly: "Must be afraid!"

"That's no surprise, after all," said yet another. "After all, Miss Koyomi…"

Still the woman didn't turn her head. The long, straight fall of her chestnut hair stood between her and the others as she said softly: "Be quiet."

The men were immediately silent. They stood in their formal attitudes, looking at her again, with a wonder and respect that renewed from day to day.

Koyomi Mizuhara, the eldest daughter of renowned instructor Kimitake, was herself renowned in Kyoto principally for three reasons: the first the poise, control and tactical genius of her swordsmanship; the second her encyclopedic knowledge of the Chinese classics, even in these chaotic times, that would have earned her a post in any court as a tutor or scholar if not for her obligations to her father's school; and third for her foreign-made eyeglasses, a rarity. Some would say that this handicap made Koyomi's talent with the sword all the more remarkable, other only saw in it the mechanical genius of the foreign workman who had produced the device. In any case the eyeglasses, secured behind her head with a gold silk cord, had never once seemed to hinder her ability to fight—she was the undefeated victor of eighteen duels.

Though several had been contested. Koyomi, with the modesty expected of a samurai, tended to only claim fourteen victories—in the others her opponents, no doubt out of their own pride and cowardice, had made strange claims that the cunning head of the Mizuhara School (how unlike her manly father!) had intentionally manipulated the time, place and conditions of the duel, to her greatest benefit, and defeated them through trickery. Even were these allegations true, of what object was it?—the purpose of a duel was to win, throughout whatever possible means short of outright treachery. It was no one's fault but his own if the challenger had neglected to consider such factors as the time and location of the duel, contrary to the specific counseling of _The Art of War_.

After a moment had passed, Oyama, with a cautious sideways look at his teacher, said: "She is late, though."

Watching the forest, Koyomi didn't answer.

Her face, as frequently, was expressionless, but Oyama—used to watching that face—could see that one side of her mouth had, almost imperceptibly, tightened.

"She'll come," said Koyomi.

Relaxing slightly, Oyama laced his hands together behind his head.

"If she doesn't," he said, trying also to affect an easygoing tone of voice, "we'll spread it all around town she didn't have guts—then she'll be finished. Heh."

But in spite of his attempt to lighten her mood, Oyama knew as well as she did that cowardice was not the explanation for their opponent's tardiness.

Oyama respected his teacher for her gravity, in a time when many samurai, even skilled swordsmanship, were becoming crude or frivolous. But sometimes he, at heart a man who enjoyed life and wanted to make the best of it, felt that she could be _overly_ serious—and at a time like this it was more than a social annoyance, it could be dangerous. It would be difficult for him to explain this to Koyomi without offending her pride—and pride was, likely, one of her faults, and age and sagacity were never listed among her virtues. Oyama himself, still a young man of twenty-eight, was her elder.

"She'll come," Koyomi, in the precise same tone of voice.

Oyama was silent.

Then from behind them came a sighing noise, as if the world itself, or the gods, had been struck by the beauty of the vista that Koyomi was so steadfastly ignoring.

Behind the circular lenses of her eyeglasses she shut her eyes.

Oyama looked around, surprised. A swift and chaotic wind had started to blow across the previously silent plain, and the dirt underneath their feet, poorly held in place by thinning white grass, blew up all at once in a cloud.

"Damn!"—coughing, Oyama wiped his eyes. The other men were also surprised, and cursed or fanned the air in front of their faces to clear the dust. Only Koyomi herself did not seem at all surprised, neither did the dust irritate her—the glass already protected her eyes, and she had only squeezed them shut out of irritation. Oyama, quickly looking to her to make sure she was unharmed, observed this.

The abrupt wind lasted only several minutes, then it seemed a spirit had blown it all away in one direction. The plain was once again clear. Koyomi lifted her head, turned it the slightest degree to the left, and said with undisguised irritation:

"She's here!"

The men all spun around, still wiping the dust from their sleeves; not one of them had sensed the approach of the challenger in the same way. Then all together their faces grew dark with anger. There, between the trees, had appeared _that woman_, who had brought their school into such disrepute; that cocksure nobody who had first had the gall to challenge them, then the further, unspeakable gall to emerge victorious.

The woman stood between two tall, straight elm trees, herself tall and straight.

The first thing any observer marked about her—and, unless they possessed any deeper, spiritual sense of a human being, the principal thing they marked—was her tallness. Next the equally long black hair that glanced off her shoulders like purity of a mountain waterfall.

But for all this her face, framed by that long hair still blown about slightly by the echoes of the wind, had a peaceful expression.

Seeing her, Oyama suddenly realized precisely why his teacher had fixed on such a place for the duel—and why the ronin's slightly late arrival had proved so irksome. The blasts of wind favored Koyomi, and if the duel had begun at the appointed time the challenger would have been undone—but Oyama wondered if she could have sensed it coming somehow, and delayed her arrival for precisely that reason. Again he was struck with admiration for his teacher's cleverness, but now an ache of foreboding began to built in his chest.

The woman ronin was dressed in a plain dark kimono. Inside of it her figure was womanly, and unlike Koyomi, she had made no effort to tie back her considerable womanhood; most likely because the effort would have been futile. Oyama had to admit to himself that he could not help being a little struck by her beauty—it was only fortunate that Koyomi, another woman, was to be her opponent. He tried to harden his expression.

Koyomi drew her sword, refracting the dim light in an explosion.

She stood on a slight incline, perhaps one foot above the ronin, her chest on level with the ronin's head.

"_Sakaki_!"

Koyomi's shout was like the wind that had briefly kicked up the dust. Then silence settled between again them.

The woman nodded slightly.

"Come forward," said Koyomi. "Unless you're afraid to die."

Sakaki nodded again.

Her expression could not be said to be friendly—but it was completely lacking the anger that Koyomi was no longer able to conceal. She remained obviously calm as she came out of the trees and began to ascend the rise toward Koyomi. In her right hand was a long dark object. When she had approached within twenty paces of them, she stopped and bowed.

"Forgive me," she said, her voice melodious and low, "for my tardiness. I was crafting my weapon…"

And she held out what proved to be a wooden sword made of dark, nearly black wood, the length of a katana. Oyama, eyeing it, lifted his brow—it looked in every respect like the work of a professional. But Koyomi's eyes narrowed.

"_That's_ your weapon?"

Sakaki gave the same mild nod.

"Just so you know," said Koyomi, her cultured voice dripping contempt, "I'll be using a _real_ sword."

Sakaki nodded.

The silence between them could have extinguished a festival bonfire.

Then Sakaki spoke. "The way I fight," she said gently, "it doesn't matter if I use a wooden sword or a real sword."

"Oh, really?" said Koyomi. "Is that so?"—and with each word, her polite language sounded more and more and more unforgivably insulting. "How nice for you. Well, then, shall we get started? That is if it's convenient for your lordship."

Oyama was unsurprised when Sakaki, again, simply nodded.

Just then there was a final disturbance. At the quick movement Oyama put his hand on his sword, but it proved to be only a small girl, coming out from between the trees. Her two pigtails bobbed wildly as she climbed the hill, running headlong.

Koyomi arched one eyebrow.

"What's this! Did you decide to bring a second more capable than yourself?"

By this time the other men, her disciples, had gathered around her and confronted Sakaki, glowering.

The girl stopped, panting, within a few paces of Sakaki.

She tried to speak: "S-Sensei, sensei—!"

"Remove this child from the dueling grounds at once!" Koyomi commanded Oyama, and he was about to move when Sakaki held up one hand:

"Wait."

She looked down at the child.

"What is it?"

"Sakaki-sensei!" said the little girl, who could not have been more than twelve years old, her voice shaking pitifully. "Don't fight; you'll be killed! Miss Yomi's the greatest swordswoman in Kyoto…they call her the _Art of War_ because they say fighting her is like fighting the book herself! You…please, you musn't…"

Sakaki turned her head, looking back at Koyomi. Her face was now as expressionless as Koyomi's at the best of times. Oyama, however, watching her, somehow had an unmistakable knowledge of her thoughts—she was too courteous to say so out loud, it seemed, but she did not make so much of Koyomi Mizuhara. Then she looked back at the child.

"Don't worry," she said, then added with an awkward kindness: "Little one."

She began to move again.

The girl took one step after her, again saying: "Sakaki-sensei…!"—but then she saw the armed men all standing around Koyomi, and faltered.

Oyama caught her eye and shook his head. Finally she drew back. Kneeling on the cold ground well back of them, she put her hands together, and began to pray to some god or buddha—he could faintly hear her muttered chant.

"You ready?" Koyomi said curtly.

The other disciples had drawn respectfully away, and now Oyama followed their lead. He watched the two combatants carefully, and almost felt inclined to mouth a prayer himself.

Up close it was obvious how much taller than Koyomi the ronin Sakaki was. And there was something else…but Oyama, although no amateur swordsman, lacked the eye to pick it out for certain.

"Ready," said Sakaki.

"Wait." Reaching up with one hand, Koyomi slightly adjusted the bridge of her eyeglasses. "Once I kill you, what do you want us to do with the body?"

Sakaki shrugged her shoulders. "I have no close relatives." Then she looked back over one shoulder. "The girl will decide, but she may need some help carrying me. I would appreciate it if…"

Oyama nodded. "Rest assured," he said.

"Thank you."

There had been no false bravado in Sakaki's voice—but at the same time he noticed that while she admitted she might die, she had not bothered to make any plans for the internment of her body.

Her particular confidence…

Oyama's mind drifted only for a moment. But if he had been engaged in combat himself, that fraction of a moment would have cost him his life. Before the thought could complete itself the crucial moment had suddenly passed, and everything had happened.

* * *

It is said that once Duke Li, wishing to rid his court of corruption and intrigue, called on the assistance of the great sage Confucius. When asked the essential first step toward attaining these aims, Confucius replied that is was, without question, the "rectification of names." By this he meant that if everything were called by its proper name, and if every person understood its name in common, there would never be any confusion. If Koyomi Mizuhara herself could have defined her style of swordsmanship by any one term, it would be the "rectification of names."

Or likewise, her motto was: "See what the other one does." She knew every style of swordsmanship in Japan by its name, along with techniques for fighting with staves, sticks and lances, and in a book—the pages of which were only open to her and her most senior disciples, like Oyama—was written a counter for every strike, a superior strike for every counter, a penetration for every defense she had ever observed.

Koyomi had never met a swordsman whom she could not, at a glance, name. And once she had named him he was defeated. Her ploys with weather, terrain and time were only safeguards to assure her victory; her faith in her basic method was unshakeable. In her glass eyes the opponent was reduced to an illustration on a page, a list of written items. She read them, it could almost literally be said, like a book.

Today, however…

Koyomi had often seen white scrolls before they were touched by ink. In the practice of her calligraphy, she often paused to contemplate the pure white page before she began. But the woman standing facing her, holding her wooden sword in an idle-looking stance while Koyomi clutched hers beside her jaw—was a pure black scroll that had been covered with completely with ink.

Koyomi set her teeth. Sakaki began to move with effortless footsteps to the right; her sword trailed behind her. Koyomi matched her pace as she turned, reacting defensively as she was given to. Then Sakaki leaped to the side, and for a brief moment—as brief as when Oyama's mind had strayed from the spectacle in front of him…

She stood in the sliver of physical space where the edge of the right lens of Koyomi's glasses cut off her vision.

The sound raced far over the silent, cold plain. A man standing far off might have mistaken it for the sound of two swords clashing.

Koyomi had collapsed on her side and Oyama, unmindful of the danger, ran to her.

Sakaki had leapt twice—once to the side, then once forward as she attacked. Now a third time she leapt backward, landed with a whisper, and watched as Oyama threw himself over Koyomi's body.

She was breathing; deep, shuddering breaths. She had made no sound when she was struck, as if the surprise were greater than the pain, but when Oyama touched her she gave a moan that chilled him through his heart.

Her sword lay on the ground several feet away. The edge of Sakaki's wooden sword had struck her shoulder and shattered it like a clay pot.

In such pain a weaker person would have lost consciousness—Koyomi whimpered as she clung to Oyama with her other hand.

"Coward!" yelled a man, the same who had early boasted that Sakaki was scared.

The woman so named, the victor, only looked puzzled—after all the accusation hardly made sense.

He had drawn his sword, and so had several others. But seeing this, Sakaki raised her own weapon halfway, and they drew back like dogs that had struck their noses in a bed of embers.

Oyama looked up at the tall, long-haired ronin, his face now expressionless as hers.

"Are there any others?" she said.

No answer. The men's eyes trembled behind their swordblades.

"Are there any others?" she repeated, and the swords hung in the cold air. When there was still no answer, the turned away, carelessly exposing her left side to the armed disciples, and began to walk. She came to the foot of the standard of the House of Mizuhara, glanced at it and uprooted it. She leaned it on one shoulder, and it waved feebly.

"I don't have a standard of my own," she said, "as of yet. So, if it's alright, I'm going to modify this one."

No one seemed to have any objection.

Sakaki turned and began to walk away.

Then one of the boastful disciples, brandishing his sword and stupidly screaming a battle cry, rushed at her exposed back.

In an entirely natural motion she shifted the standard pole on her shoulder. Its end slid past the man's guards, striking him in the soft part of his throat—his own momentum drove the blow home. His eyes exploded with agony and he fell on the ground, coughing and choking.

In Oyama's arms, Koyomi had clenched her eyes shut, and had begun to weep from the pain. He gently laid her down.

Across the field, Sakaki stood by her friend, the young girl. Oyama might have thought they were mother and daughter, except that they did not quite look alike; and they behaved more like an older and younger sister. The girl was still kneeling in prayer with her eyes shut. Sakaki put one hand on the top of her head, and she opened them and looked up.

* * *

AN: _This will get funnier in future chapters, I promise. Maybe._


	2. Empty Body, Empty Head

2. Empty Body, Empty Head

"Now," said the teacher. "Who can tell me what mistake Mitsuda-san just made?"

The student Mitsuda Shoji, a young novice, was stretched out at her feet. He wasn't moving. Her practiced eye could tell that he was unconscious, but ironically, if he had been a better swordsman, he might be dead. When Mitsuda had seen her blow coming he had fainted dead away from fright, as she had expected. If he had made some clumsy attempt to parry, he might have fatally injured himself.

Twelve students kneeled in front of them on the dojo floor. They were, for the most part, young men like Mistuda, who had come to the hall with little prior training, humbly to receive its instruction. Or so they seemed to think. In fact not one of them was half as humble as he imagined himself, one of the first truths that Minamo Kurosawa found she had to drill through their heads. They all cherished some secret dream of becoming the school's foremost disciple through their great humility. The fact that only one person could, in theory, hold such a post never crossed their minds. The fact of her experience was that in reality, each swordsman had their limit, and the mark of a real man was to recognize that limit—one might even say that the purpose of swordsmanship, in her view, was to discover one's natural limits. Some men were gifted by heaven to become great geniuses. It was no shame that the greater part of men were not. In fact—she found—such a genius often did as much harm as good, like a sword that cut with both edges. It could bring a human being glory, but it could also make him very unhappy. Kurosawa considered herself no genius, only an ordinary practitioner who, through the god-given blessings of a long life and luck, had survived to learn a few tricks. It could be said that her students knew much more than she did. Her main task was to drive them slowly back into ignorance.

The faces of the young men were blank. Unless she were making fun of them, the instructor's question made no sense—Mitsuda had made no mistake. He had not even had the chance to act rightly or wrongly.

"Was his mistake…" said one student, a bit of a fop, known for his sly sense of humor, "perhaps…in coming here in the first place?"

Kurosawa gave a thin-lipped smile.

"That's rather unkind, Mirata. Do you any of you," she asked, not as if mocking them but gently, "think you would have fared better?"

Mirata and several other bowed their heads.

Ordinarily Kurosawa-sensei was an unassuming woman. She never powdered her face or gave any special attention to her hair, which she wore short. Her eyes were large, limpid and kind, and her voice never rose above an even tone. There was something calming about her presence; it could hardly be said to inspire fear. But when she had told Mitsuda to face her, already they could sense a change in her. Then when she lifted the sword over her head, and it was as if her eyes were shades that had been drawn, and her mouth a channel gate that held a river in check. No one could say what had happened, but a flash of some power escaped her and grazed them even where they were sitting, as surely as if daggers had been drawn over their foreheads—and Mitsuda had been standing right in front of her. What had happened was no surprise to anyone.

Kurosawa sheathed her sword.

"The answer is," she said, "Mistuda made no mistake. But if he were standing in a battle, he would be dead." Her eyes once again soft, she looked over them. "All of you are men of ability. Some of you may be better than others. Mitsuda himself may be a swordsman of no mean ability, someday. But each of you—I promise you this—will one day encounter an enemy whose skill surpasses your own…as far as your own skill surpasses an animal's. And if you abandon false pride, you will learn to recognize such a man…" Looking with some pity at Mitsuda's prostrate body, she added: "I am your teacher. I would never do anything to harm you. I only hope that Mistuda trusted me in his heart, even when his senses failed him. What frightened him was only the sudden knowledge of his own weakness…a knowledge that each of you would be wise to learn, as well."

"But, sensei…" Heartened by the kinder tone of Kurosawa's voice, the student named Mirata spoke up. "But, isn't it important to believe that you can win? Otherwise…how could you ever win a bout?"

"It's better," Kurosawa answered, "to know that you can win."

Mirata lowered his eyes.

Just then, a sound that had been underscoring her words for some time caught Kurosawa's attention. Turning her head with a slight expression of annoyance, she remarked: "What an awful downpour."

The dojo's main hall was solidly constructed of pinewood, and the walls did a great amount to muffle the noise. Nonetheless, even there, they could hear a sound like shifting metal as the heavens wept.

Her students agreed: "Yes, sensei, it's terrible…" "liable to break in the roof…"

"At any rate," said Mirata, a faint smile returning to his face, "I feel sorry for anyone caught out in _that_."

* * *

The Kurosawa family dojo was a small building on the outskirts of the imperial city of Kyoto. The school had been founded decades ago by Sorajiro Kurosawa, a former footsoldier with no pretensions of great status, and both the style of the school and its simple, one-story practice hall reflected this humility.

Minamo, the sixth member of the family line since Sorajiro, had inherited the secrets of the Kurosawa style in place of a lackadaisical older brother, but this had not stopped her from taking a husband: Hidenori Kimura, the son of a government clerk. Although there had been some whispering regarding certain of his eccentricities, he seemed be a man of character, and had dedicated his life to the art of flower-arranging. So it happened that in one large room of the dojo, Kurosawa-sensei (who for reasons quite clear to anyone who knew them, had not assumed her husband's name) taught the swordsmanship to young men, while in the adjoining room, Kimura-sensei taught flower arrangement to young women. He had long been instructing students that ignoring the battle cries coming through the thin screen was the first stage of their training.

In front of Kimura-sensei and the small, square vase full of tiger lilies he was tending knelt seven young women. They wore white kimonos, and of them six were slender, their skin nearly as pale as the kimonos they wore, their hair done up carefully and their faces painted. The girl sitting on Kimura-sensei's extreme right was the one exception.

She was powerfully built for her height, and her skin was baked the color of chestnuts from days spent under the sun. Fond as he was of her, Kimura-sensei generally refrained from criticizing her—after all, how could she help her upbringing?—though he couldn't help but notice how often her eyes drifted over her shoulder, away from the flowers he gently manipulated with his hands, toward the silhouettes of men and their swords on the far side of the screen.

She was a foundling, left by the river to die and discovered there by a former student. Now she worked for the Kurosawa school as a scullery maid. Not knowing either her given or family name, Minamo had named her after the festival dance with its energetic movements—_Kagura_. From the day that she could walk, Kagura had displayed that reckless energy in everything she did, whether bounding up trees without a thought for her own safety, stealing cakes from the bakery, or getting into stickfights with local brats. Several times Minamo had had to pry her apart from some young boy, and found more scars on her opponent. The students—all of whom were fond of her, considering her something like the school mascot—joked that she should have been born a man. Kimura, however, had found in her a sensitivity as well, the prerequisite for the aesthetic way of life. It did not cross his mind—knowing little besides his own craft—that this was also a key ingredient of swordsmanship. Kagura took to flower arrangement indifferently, no better or worse than any of his other students; but with her coarse upbringing even this was remarkable. He encouraged her to apply herself, but knew that in the end she would decide for herself how to spend her life.

Now she was watching the screen again, he saw, as discreetly as she was able to. They had all heard the sound of a human body collapsing just a moment ago. When it had come, Kimura's hand hadn't flinched on the stem of the lily, but he knew that he had lost Kagura hopelessly for the day.

Then in the room on the other side of the screen, Kurosawa's students rose as one.

"Ah, my," said Kimura mildly. "It seems I haven't been watching the time."

With his practiced movements he shifted his work aside and stood up.

It was customary for his day's lessons to conclude slightly before his wife's, so that the loud, sweaty young men would not collide with his young women as they left the school.

"That will be all for today," he said to his students. "Thank you for your hard work."

They rose, then bowed.

"Thank you, Kimura-sensei!"

Kagura only bowed halfway. When the other girls had filed out, exchanging their last, individual good-byes with their teacher, she lingered a moment.

All of a sudden Kimura was standing by her—she jumped.

"Sensei! I just, that's to say I was just…"

He smiled. "Don't trouble yourself."

Kagura scratched with one hand behind her head. "D'you think he's alright?"

"Whom do you mean?"

"I mean—whoever fell down in there."

"My wife," said Kimura, "is a conscientious instructor. I have no doubt that the safety of her students is her foremost priority."

"Still," said Kagura, her eyes slightly wide. "Somethin' really must be going _on_ over there, huh!"

Before Kimura could answer, the door in the screen slid open. Kennichi Mirata swaggered through, and the other disciples followed closely.

"Oh!" said Mirata, feigning surprise. "You frightened me there!"

He was addressing Kagura. Looking up at him innocently, she blinked.

Remembering his instructor's display, Mirata said: "You shouldn't look at people like that, you know. It's like there are daggers coming out of your eyes!"

Kagura large eyes seemed to turn inward.

"You mean it?"

It took her a moment to realize she was being made fun of—because, in her heart, she cherished the hope that her gaze really could affect people in this way. For a moment her young face glowed; then she turned bright red.

"Hey, you jerk! Don't think you're big just 'cause you carry a wooden sword. If I had a sword, I bet I could whip you!"

"You hear that, Mirata?" said another student, pausing as he wiped the sweat off his forehead. "That sounds like a formal challenge to me."

Mirata snickered. "Come find me when you're of age, then. I'll be waiting!"

"I don't see why there's so much to swordfighting," Kagura was muttering. "You get a sword and you swing it! Who needs to teach you anything?—No matter how much you learn, I could still whip you. Just let me try."

"You'll spoil your looks," said a third disciple, "always scowling like that. Then how'll you find a husband?"

Mirata placed his hand on top of her head. "I'll marry you," he said. "We can have the ceremony after our duel."

"Ahh, shut up!" snarled Kagura, striking his hand away. "Who'd want to marry a loser like you!"

Then she turned tail and fled, her angry footsteps pounding the floor. In a moment she had vanished.

"She's fast," said Mirata. "I'll give her that."

Standing there chuckling, he hardly realized that he was standing beside Kimura, and gave a jump when he noticed the man. "Sensei!—didn't see you there, don't scare a guy like that!"

Kimura had a vacant, slack face that often struck other men as eerie. Only when he was speaking to a woman was it ever lightened by a smile.

"What've you got there?" said Mirata.

In his hand he was holding a tiger lily he had retrieved from one of his student's compositions.

"Beautiful," he said, holding it up to the light. "Beautiful but fierce. Don't you think?"

Mirata shrugged. "Beats me. I don't get any of that feminine stuff."

* * *

Kagura had retreated to the rear porch of the dojo, oftentimes her refuge. Behind her was the door the kitchen, where it seemed like she had spent all her life; in front of her a curtain of rain fell endlessly, like a punishment on the wicked city. It completely blocked the view. She sat with her legs hanging off the porch, grasping pebbles between her toes and flicking them out into the darkness.

The door slid open behind her. She looked back, but it was only one of the cooks, an old woman named Kaede.

"Oh, hi."

"Why hello there, Kagura-dono," said Kaede, addressing her jokingly as if she were a great master.

Kagura didn't rise to the bait.

"Hey," she said quietly. "Wouldn't it be great if…this whole place just floated away somewhere?"

"Whatever do you mean?"

"I don't know," said Kagura. "Someplace. Away."

Then both of them were arrested by an impossible sight in the rain.

"My, my," said Kaede, screening her eyes. "Some poor soul is either very unfortunate, or very foolish."

A small road ran behind the school; on the other side of it, miles of barley fields. Shown against that damp green expanse was a figure, walking down the road in the pounding rain.

Kagura squinted. "It's a priest!" she said. "Must be one of those crazy saints."

"But even the Buddha dharma won't protect them against a chill like that. Kagura-dono, please, call out to them…this wouldn't be Kurosawa-dono's school if we couldn't offer a little kindness to a poor lost traveler."

Kagura, ignoring the soaking she immediately received, had already dashed several paces out into the rain.

"_Oi_!" she called through her cupped hands. "_Oi_! You!"

The traveler stopped. They were indeed wearing the robes of a mendicant priest, and carrying the staff that, to a follower of Kobo Daishi, was said to incarnate the body of the saint himself—so Kagura was surprised to see a young woman's face peering out from under the brim of her hat.

She was also more than surprised by the expression on the face.

With rain cascading off all sides of her hat, her white garments hanging on her like dishrags, the woman opened her mouth and laughed.

"Wah-ha-ha…this is fun!"

Not even a woman, thought Kagura. The girl probably wasn't more than her own age, sixteen years. How did she look after herself? Especially if, as it seemed…

"My, my," Kaede repeated, pressing the knuckles of one old hand to her mouth. "The poor dear seems to have lost her mind."

Kagura had quickly crossed the space between them.

"Hey," she said, in the rough way she preferred. "You're from Osaka, aren't you?"

"Oh, how'd ya know? Everyone here says I talk funny. But I don't mind. What's talking anyway? Just some funny sounds yer mouth makes." The woman's eyes, even with the sheet of rain in front of them, shone luminously. Kagura had never seen anything like it. Even the rain had failed to extinguish some light inside of her. Was that what they called enlightenment?—but she was so young! Here _she_ was, still scrubbing pots in some tiny school, and a girl priest the same age might have already achieved enlightenment. Not for the first time, Kagura felt that the world was rapidly passing her by.

But if her manner was rough, she wasn't the type to let such a petty jealousy manifest as rudeness.

"Hey, hey, doesn't matter where you're from, if you stay out here you're gonna die pg the cold. Why don't you come in? We're just a small sword school, but we got a bite to eat."

The priest's smile widened.

"That's very kind of y'all, really. But I got to keep walking. I'm circum—cirple—circumnavigatin'!—this province. There's lots of shrines 'round here; d'you know that? People walk by and don't even see 'em."

"Sure, sure, but why not wait till the rain lets up?"

"The wheel of _samsara_ waits for no one," said the priest with gravity. "If I don't do it when it's rainin', I won't do it when it's sunnin'."

Kagura shrugged: she guessed couldn't argue with that kind of logic.

"But—are you all by yourself?"

"Uh-huh?"

"You an orphan?" said Kagura. Then added, a bit shyly: "Like me?"

The priest gave another untroubled smile. "My dad's Mahavairochina," she said, "the Buddha of all th' cosmos. My mom's Amaterasu, the goddess of all Japan."

"Huh. Don't you get lonely?"

"It's okay," said the priest. She lifted her staff. "I got ol' Kobo Daishi here to keep me company."

Then suddenly she leaned closer to Kagura.

"You got something," she said. "Something in yer eye."

"My—eye?"

"Yeah."

Kagura brushed at them. "You mean like dirt?"

"I mean like the sun and moon," said the priest, without the trace of a joke.

"Eh?" said Kagura. But she was on her guard, having already been taken in by Mirata. "You're kidding."

"Nope." The priest shook her head. Then, mysteriously, she added: "Be careful."

Be…careful? What was there to be careful of? She lived the most boring life. She was about to tell the priest, but had the odd sense that the priest already knew.

"Uh-huh," she said cautiously. "I will be."

The priest was rummaging in her damp cloak, her tongue protruding slightly from one side of her mouth. She took out something small and dark and pressed into the surprised Kagura's hand.

"Huh?—What's this thing?"

"My gift to you," said the priest. "As a sign of our friendship."

Kagura held it very close to her face, trying to see in the dimness. The priest watched her, smiling.

"It's a roast chestnut," said Kagura.

As if she had hit on the answer to a koan, the priest quickly said: "That's right."

Then all of a sudden she was gone. It was only because the darkness had swallowed her as she stepped away, but the impression was unreal. Kagura caught sight of her some distance off, making her merry way again down the road.

Under her breath she was singing a snatch of a poem that Ippen, the "singing saint" of the Ji school, was said to have written:

_He who calls / but even once / on the name of Amida / never fails to reach Paradise…_

Kagura stood looking after her, fingering the smooth roast chestnut in one hand. What could it mean?

Then she was aware, faintly, of Kaede's voice. The old woman was calling to her from the porch, with greater and greater desperation: "Buddha's sake, I hope that madness isn't catching!—Come back here, Kagura; leave her to her fate if you must, just get back here before death finds you!"

Kagura shuddered. Somehow, in the company of the priest, she had for a moment become indifferent to the elements. Now she was aware of the awful sensation of being drenched completely through. She turned on her heel and began to run—but not before slipping the chestnut into her pocket.


	3. The Wildcat in Repose

AN: _RE: the last chapter...it occurs to me that an Osaka accent isn't really much different from a Kyoto accent, plus I don't know how things were historically. Ah, well..._

* * *

3. The Wildcat in Repose

As human beings immersed in time, we are accustomed to thinking that it moves only in one direction. But to the gods, who never die, it must appear like a river—always flowing, but remaining in one place, and able to be observed from any one of a thousand vantage points.

More than seven years had passed from the time of the chance meeting between two insignificant people—the household servant, Kagura, and the wandering girl dressed like a priest, whose name was not even known—outside a house on the southernmost limits of Kyoto, to the day when it was announced, far and wide through the streets of the same city, that the House of Mizuhara had fallen. Like the sinking of a proud ship, it had been quite a spectacle. The Mizuhara style, that had scored decisive victories against nearly every competing school in the Kansai region, had been bested by the unknown style of a single practitioner. Koyomi Mizuhara—who was, it had been agreed, a legend in the making—had been crippled for life. She would never draw a sword again.

Common people like to laugh at the tragedies of the great. Although, among those versed in swordsmanship, there was alarm and even dismay at the news—if Mizuhara could fall so suddenly, could one reckon on anything in this world?—for the most part the news was greeted with jeers, jokes, offhand remarks. Koyomi had widely respected, but it could hardly be said that she was liked. There were even a few who took outright pleasure in the outcome of the duel.

And of course, there were the many enemies Koyomi had made. Among them were swordsmen she, herself, had crippled. None of them were exactly grieved by the news.

But there was one enemy of the House of Mizuhara who did not smile.

* * *

At around midnight, a runner came pounding down the main drag of Kyoto's pleasure quarter. All around, lamps hung in the darkness like the ones set afloat on the river to commemorate the dead. The entire world could have been floating in darkness. The runner, a scrawny middle-aged nobody, paid no attention to any of it. He scarcely apologized as he brushed past strangers, making for his destination.

The duel between Koyomi and the ronin had taken place shortly after noon. It had been over ten hours, and the runner reflected with a quaking heart that the news might have already reached the young master through other channels, but it was always difficult to find her. He might have guessed she'd be in this district, even on such a day—but she had so many "regular haunts" that he was directed from one to another, following her itinerary for the evening, until he finally arrived at the one called the Sea of Fertility. She would still be there, she had to be; by now she must be so drunk that she couldn't possibly go on.

Stumbling into the entranceway—he startled a geisha kneeling there—he blurted out: "I'm Shimizu, a man of the master's, and I need to speak to her at once."

"'_The master—_?'" said the frightened girl. "What master, sir?"

"Fool, there's only one master here, isn't there!"

"But still, just to be sure…"

"You know perfectly well who I'm talking about!" Then, in a softer voice, he added: "I bet she'd given you a terrible time, hasn't she?"

At that the girl bowed.

"I'll take you to her immediately, sir."

She led him into the darkened corridors of the drinking house. Such a place made a man like Shimizu who, although only a servant, was accustomed to the austerity of a samurai house, uncomfortable; the cheap, sweet smell of perfume and sake, along with amorous-sounding whispers, seemed to creep like serpents along the woodwork. Finally the geisha stopped before a room on the upper level. From inside, the voice of another young girl could be heard pleading:

"Oh please, Lord Magistrate, you mustn't!"

It was always difficult to tell with women if such insistences were meant seriously. In this case, Shimizu thought that from the sound, the girl was rather enjoying her customer's attentions.

The man, or rather the woman so named, was not in fact the Lord Magistrate of Kyoto—the honor of that post belonged to Lord Tanizaki—it was only the joking title by which she was known in the pleasure quarter. Outside the walls of this floating world, she was better known as the Wildcat of Kyoto.

"Aw, c'mon little lady!" answered a voice that could only belong to that person.

The first servant girl slid back the screen and bowed. Inside the room, exactly like one of the enormous tropical cats they sometimes displayed in noble houses, was sprawled the young master.

Shimizu bowed low beside the girl.

"Takino-sama," he said, his forehead pressed against the floor. "Your servant humbly begs your pardon."

Even in such a messy state, there was a grace in the way the young master lay; she could have sprung up at any moment. The muscles in her flank and leg were clearly visible through her thin kimono, and in her eyes, focusing on Shimizu, there was a sharpness that no amount of sake could blunt.

She had been engaged in unwinding the obi of the servant girl, causing her to spin around like a top as she shrieked merrily. The men in the room, four in all, had been all but crippled with laughter; now with Shimizu's entrance, they sensed that something more serious was afoot, and tried to pull themselves upright.

The given name of the Lady Takino was Tomoko, but her behavior was in all ways so much like a man's that she was called Tomonosuke.

With an idleness, the Wildcat released her pray. Propping herself up on one elbow, she regarded Shimizu.

"_Oi_, what do you want? Don't you know who it is you're butting in on?"

"Takino-sama!" said Shimizu, bowing again. "Please, don't you recognize your own servant! I've come bearing extremely important news…"

Whether making a show, or because she was honestly so drunk she had mistaken him, Tomonosuke narrowed her eyes. Then she broke out in a smile.

"Hey, hey, why didn't you say so! You're Shim—Shiya—Shinya, eh? Come in, have a drink with us!" She snatched up a small pitcher of sake, and it if it hadn't been empty she would have drenched herself. "Let's all drink, 'cause we don't know if we'll even be here tomorrow!"

"No, no, Miss Takino!" Shimizu adroitly refused, drawing back.

Although her temper was fierce, it was important to resist the young master firmly—if she were humored even a little, there was no telling where you would end up. Her temper passed quickly, like a summer storm, but the ill effects of her companionship were lasting.

The great sword of the House of Takino, a _nodachi_ over four feet in length, leaned against one corner in its black sheath. But unlike Koyomi Mizuhara, Tomonosuke was not the head of a school of swordsmanship; nor was she even a student. Both she and Koyomi had studied under Kimitake Mizuhara in what was then the preeminent Kyoto style, but while Koyomi had taken it upon herself to revolutionize her father's style, Tomonosuke (who had, it was whispered, been forcibly ejected from the school in any case for her reckless behavior) had broken with all schools. She had claimed to found a style of her own, which she had no intention of teaching to anyone, that she proudly called the 'No-Thought' style—and that was deemed by some, with a slight change of phrasing, the 'No-Brains' style. So it happened that the men drinking with Tomonosuke that night were not her own students, but merely various lowlifes.

As Tomonosuke listened to the news the servant was blurting out, her wide, frank young face slowly formed into a snarl. Even with his eyes on the lacquered floor, Shimizu could feel it through his forehead.

From her habits, there who those who judged the young master to be a person of little consequence. Several minutes in her presence quickly changed this impression. Such was the force of her character that, when she was light and airy, the men around her burst into laughter. But when she was angry…

The serving girl, having fixed her obi, had drawn back into one corner.

"Shimizu!" said Tomonosuke.

"M-master?"

"How dare you go around spreading lies like that!"

"It's not a lie!" he simpered. "I wish I could tell you anything else, but that's just the way it happened!"

The truth be told, he didn't fully understand why she would be so angry. It was true that her association with Miss Mizuhara went back many years, but when it came to that, they hardly seemed—to be on the best of terms.

There was the time Tomonosuke had sent her retainers to replace the Five Great Texts in Koyomi's private library with obscene popular woodcuts. They had crossed swords on that occasion, and Koyomi had suffered defeated in two of three bouts. But not a week had passed before some mysterious person spread rumors about Tomonosuke in the court of Lord Magistrate Tanizaki, leading to a military investigation of her household, and on that occasion Koyomi had scored a technical knockout against Tomonosuke. So it had gone back and forth for years, neither fighter, with their radically different styles, able to gain the upper hand (these practice bouts were not counted in either Koyomi's unbroken string of victories, or Tomonosuke's own impressive record) until today.

When Shimizu dared to look up, he was astonished at what he saw. No mistaking it—a tear hanging like a jewel in the corner of the young master's eye. She quickly wiped it away, then got to her feet. For all the sake in her body she stood firmly.

"He-ey," slurred one of her companions, pulling on the hem of her kimono. "Doesn't matter what's happened, leave it 'till tomorrow! Problems, they don't exist in _this_ world, here…"

That was the prevailing attitude of the pleasure quarter. But it was clear that such logic had no appeal to Tomonosuke today.

"Idiot!" she snapped. "Shut up, or I'll cut out your tongue and feed it to my dogs!"

The man cringed back. As was often the case, the threat seemed to be a joke, but it was still delivered in a terrifying ringing voice. Tomonosuke had a fondness for adopting a swaggering, masculine tone, but it could be difficult to tell where the pretense left off and her very real violence began.

To Shimizu she said: "You mean to tell me Kangaesugi-san didn't even cross swords with her?"

_Kangaesugi-san_ was Tomonosuke's well-known nickname for her rival: "Miss Thinks-Too-Much."

"It's just as I said. The fight was decided in one blow."

Tomonosuke was rubbing her chin. "Not possible. No one could be that strong…Of course, Yomi's so-called 'style' was just a bag of tricks. But damnit, they were _good_ tricks. No one's that strong. And…"

Once again, there was no mistaking a tear trying to escape Tomonosuke's right eye. This time she slapped at it.

"Damn flies! Shimizu, you can't really mean she's crippled."

"From what I heard, she was fortunate," he said. "The ronin's strength was such that she might have killed her in that blow."

"Not possible!" shouted Tomonosuke. "D'you hear me, it's not possible! Because…" Now for a moment she showed the effects of her drunkenness, and swayed on her feet. She reached out and braced herself against the wall, and brushed at her face again. When she spoke it was in an even louder yell: "_I'm the only one who can beat her_!—You hear that, Shimizu? I'm the only one who can beat Mizuhara! So, it must be a lie."

"Young m-master, please…"

Shimizu's feet dangled several inches off the ground. Tomonsuke had swept him up in one vicious lunge, and had him pinned by his collar against the wall.

"D'you understand!" she repeated.

"Y-yes! I understand, I understand!"

Suddenly seeming to realize what she had done, Tomonosuke blinked and released him. He collapsed on the floor in a heap. Now the young master was a housecat again, all wide-eyed innocence.

She moved in a vague circle, pacing the floor. Shimizu, the serving girls, her gambler friends all watched her.

"_Mou_," she was whispering. "It's just like Yomi to go and do something stupid like that. The gods only give you two arms, you'd think she'd take better care of them…"

"But Lord Magistrate," said one of the gamblers, with a crooked smile. "It's not like _you're_ ever in the least bit careful…!"

"I do it different," said Tomonosuke with a shrug. "If you want to live, you've got to be ready to die. If you try and keep your life you'll lose it. And if you want to win, you can't care about it. _That's_ no the No-Thought style. Kangaesugi-san, she was always scared…so she lost."

"But _you're_ not scared, eh?" said the gambler.

Tomonosuke grinned.

She had been moving around, her body, hard as steel when she was angry, now pliant and soft. Her arm reached out with a natural movement and snatched at her sword, as if she were playing. Then the air in the room was suddenly divided in half with a great rush of wind.

"Merciful Amida!" screeched one of the gamblers.

Tomonosuke held the sword of her ancestors outstretched in one hand, and it reached nearly across the room. She balanced the heavy blade effortlessly. For reasons long buried in time, it was called _shirokaze_—the White Wind.

"Scared?" she said. "I'm not scared of anything—not even gods or buddhas! Why should I be? If a god wants to fight, I'll give him a fight. And even if this ronin is a god, I'll have _her_ running scared—because I'm Tomo Takino! And that's better than being any god or buddha. You get it?"

The gamblers, confronted with Tomonosuke's eyes and the flashing point of her sword, could only nod their heads.

"Uh-huh! Uh-huh!"

"Alright!" said Tomonosuke, and brandished the sword, and the men screamed and ducked. "Koyomi! You were a cowardly dog, not fit to tie the thongs on my getta, but I'll avenge your defeat!—because it's up to men like me to protect the weak! That's the Way of the Sword! Now prepare yourself, ronin…Say, Shimizu."

Suddenly turning in her speech, and in the process cutting the air again with the sword and nearly relieving one man of his topknot, she addressed him.

"Yes, master?"

"What style did you say this ronin used?"

"I believe," said Shimizu, "it was said she called it the _Kamineko_ style."

"'The God of Cats' style, eh? Never heard of it."

"And what's more," he added, remembering something, "I believe it was said that she called herself Sakaki—obviously a pseudonym."

"Like the sacred branch, eh?" said Tomonosuke. "Hmm."

She slammed the sword back in its scabbard with a sound like gnashing teeth.

"So this Sakaki, with her invincible Kamineko style, thinks she can defeat the great Wildcat Tomonosuke. Well! It's looks like somebody's mounting a futile effort."

Shimizu, with great regret, found himself obliged to remind her that the ronin had done nothing to openly wrong the House of Takino; as such, there were no grounds for a duel. And if a noblewoman like herself were to challenge the ronin to a simple match, it would be degrading.

"Forget it," said Tomonosuke, flapping her hand. "Stuff like that's easy; anyone can start a fight with anyone. That's what's so great about this age."

"Then do you really intend to challenge—"

"Of course! I'll just say her dog chewed up my banner or something. And then I'll—" with a _whoosh_, the White Wind flew over Shimizu's head, bisecting the sliding door. The cut was so quick that there was hardly a sound, and so clean that it could not be seen. The door still hung in its frame, but a slight push would have sent both halves crashing to the ground. "And then this!"—the sword, its long thin blade like a beam of light, flickered again, the servant's girl obi came apart with a snap. This time she was not amused; she fell on the floor, pale and trembling. "And maybe some of _this_!"—the White Wind moved again. But this time, nothing was cut; rather when it was still again, extended at arm's length like before, the tiny clay sake pitcher was balanced on the very tip.

The gamblers whooped and burst into applause.

Tomonosuke reached out and swiped the pitcher, and rammed the sword back home with her other hand. "All right! What're you lot waiting for; laugh, sing! Girls, bring more sake—and cakes! We'll drink 'till the sun comes up! Let's show heaven we're not afraid to die! Shimizu, stop all that kneeling and bowing…Come here and drink or I'll cut your head off! Ha, ha! Isn't it great to be alive…!"

* * *

Late the next morning, a palanquin approached the residence of the House of Mizuhara. As large as the temple on Mount Koya, and within a eyesight of the Imperial palace, it was truly an impressive structure—but as always, the woman dismounting gave it only the briefest glance as she passed through the gate.

A servant, dressed in dark colors as if in morning, took up her name. In a brief time she was admitted. She well knew—however reluctant that person might have been to admit it—how the mistress of the house had desired her presence, waited for her arrival.

Of course, she had a perhaps unusual way of showing her gratitude.

"So, you decided to show your useless face," said Koyomi. "You came to have a laugh, I suppose?"

"That's right!" said Tomonosuke. Then she proceeded to laugh, loudly and at length. By the time she was finished, she was wiping tears from her eyes; then she stopped abruptly and composed herself. "I must say," she went on pompously, "it's really some mess you've gotten yourself into this time. Even _I_ never would have thought you could do something so stupid…"

Sick as she was, Koyomi managed to gather the strength to yell: "_The one who's stupid is you_!"

She was propped up in her bed by cushions, swaddled in blankets; her face was white. Underneath the rich blankets, it was plain to see the outline of her left arm—while on the other side of her body there was nothing.

"So!" said Tomonosuke, leaning forward, without a hint of tact. "They took the whole arm off, did they? Well, I suppose they didn't have any choice. You sure did _lose_! Badly! I guess after that, it doesn't matter if the arm went or not…it's not like you could ever show your face in the streets again! I'm sorry, but it's just too funny! In fact…"

Instead of losing her temper again, Koyomi only, weakly, turned her head away.

"Too loud," she whispered.

This alone was enough to alarm Tomonosuke.

She rocked forward on her knees. "Eh, Yomi. Tell me what really happened. You were off your guard or something, weren't you?—Or did she trick you!"

With her eyes shut, Koyomi shook her head.

"_Kamineko_…" she muttered.

"Eh? What's that?"

"The Kamineko style," said Koyomi. "Too strong."

"Eh. Eh, Yomi. Tell me about the Kamineko style!"

Koyomi's eyes were still shut. Her breathing was shallow. For a moment, Tomonosuke thought her condition was worsening, and almost called for a servant; but in a moment, Koyomi spoke again.

"No I can't…tell you anything about the Kamineko style. If I could…then I wouldn't have lost to it."

"Oh, oh," said Tomonosuke. "I get it, I get it." Looking past Koyomi, her eyes went distant. "So, she's the same as me…"

"Tomo!" Koyomi's voice was like the slap of a whisk. "Don't fight her."

"Eh? Whoever said anything about—alright, I was going to. But why shouldn't I?"

"I never told you this…" Koyomi now seemed weaker than ever. "But now that I'm finished, I might as well. Tomo. You're a better swordswoman than I am.—But not by a lot! Don't let it…go to you head. If we fought a hundred duels, you'd win sixty—that's the judgment of a strategist. Believe it. But the difference between that ronin and me was greater than that. I think that…even if I trained for a thousand years, I couldn't beat her. Out of a hundred duels, I'd count myself lucky to score a single victory. And it's the same for you.

"Tomo…I admit defeat. Be content with that…and don't try to take on Sakaki. You'll lose, and you might not come off…as lightly as I did…" Koyomi's voice shrank to a whisper as she finished: "Please."

In response, Tomonosuke burst out laughing.

"Yomi—you're too funny! As if I'd soil my honor by running away. I might as well dig up my ancestors and spit on their corpses." Then she got to her feet. "Don't worry. I'll take care of that ronin, and her Kamineko style. Then I'll come back here and laugh at you 'till my face turn black. _Ja, ne_!"

With that, and a slight wave of her hand, she turned her back.

For all that she would have liked to, Tomonosuke did not take Koyomi's admission of defeat in the least bit seriously. Although she rarely grasped such subtleties, she understood on this occasion that it was only a ploy—an appeal to her pride—to keep her from tracking down the ronin.

It was a very odd set of circumstances indeed that could bring Koyomi Mizhuhara to humble herself, even in jest; and that could make Tomonosuke Takino pass up an opportunity to gloat.

The screen door slid to. Suddenly animated, Koyomi tried to claw her way upright.

"Tomo! Tomo, wait—!"

But even when she called her servant, begging that her guest be detained, she was informed that the Lady Takino had already taken her leave.

It had been a ploy, but a part of it, at least, had been serious—her deadly certainty that Tomonosuke stood not the slightest chance against Sakaki.


	4. The Tiger and the Monkey

AN: _I'm starting to love how gender equality both is and isn't taken for granted in this crazy little world...basically all the important positions in Kyoto are held by women, but that guy still teases Kagura about finding a husband?_

_ Well, I don't think the Emperor's a woman. He's probably Chiyo's dad._

_Anyway, I was watching Episode Three of the anime to prep for writing this chapter. Did you ever notice how in some scenes, even Tomo appears disgusted by Yukari's behavior?  
_

* * *

4. The Tiger and the Monkey

Old friendships. It is, sometimes, the way of the world that those whose appear to be our closest confederates, who make the greatest show of affection to us, in fact are adders who bite our turned backs. And by the same token, those we avoid, and greet if at all with annoyance, are those who would stand by us on the very brink of hell.

The retired teacher of swordsmanship lived in a cottage, on the first ascent of the mountains. From the rock garden behind the building, it was possible to catch a glimpse of the shining roof of the Imperial palace, and while the city appeared distant, it was no further from its outskirts than one side of the city was from the other.

It happened that she was sitting in her garden, sipping strong green tea from a cup that a former student, now a potter, had crafted for her. Around her were the branches of small mountain pines, underneath her the pure expanse of white gravel. In front of her was the view of Kyoto, under scattered morning clouds. At such moment she felt as if the universe were truly in harmony—and always had been, from its creation, in spite of wars, earthquakes and hurricanes; in the end it was chaos, and not order, that was the illusion. Then she heard a soft knock on the door of the cottage.

Masachi was away in Sendai, in search of some rare breed of hibiscus. Unhurriedly, the teacher got to her feet, placed the steaming cup on the gravel, and went inside. In the mountain solitude a visitor, even a wandering beggar, was always welcome.

And a wandering beggar it proved to be. It was impossible to see the old woman's face beneath the brim of her basket hat, but she wore disheveled garments and put out her hands imploringly.

"Please, good lady," she said—but did her voice sound strange? "For the Buddha's sake…"

The teacher smiled. "But of course. In truth, wish I could do more for those who suffer like you, but my own means are scarce…Nonetheless I have some rice to offer, and tea, and I would be honored if you would like to join my midday meal. The view from my garden…"

All of a sudden the beggar flipped back her hat.

"Surprise, Nyamo!" she said, then collapsed into giggles.

Minamo Kurosawa, two years retired from instructorship of her dojo—which she had passed into the hands of her favorite disciple—stared openmouthed. The woman standing in front her, her face surrounded by rich fluffy hair, was none other than…

Inwardly, Kurosawa gave a slight smile and said: _So, you decided to show your useless face._ But the woman standing in front of her was two people in one body. On the one hand, she was Yukari, the somewhat uncouth young woman with whom she had studied etiquette and literature at the academy. On the other she was Lord Magistrate Tanizaki, the most revered personage in the city of Kyoto below the Emperor and his court.

Kurosawa fell on her knees and humbly bowed.

"My Lord…you shame me by setting eyes on this lowly house."

"Aw, come on, Nyamo!" said the Lord Magistrate, hauling her unceremoniously upright. "You're always putting on airs! Well, you weren't very dignified that time the both of us snuck out of the dormitory and outside Senior Kanagi's window, hoping to catch a glimpse of him—"

Kurosawa turned bright red. "How on _earth_ did you remember—!"

"And wasn't there that time," Yukari went on, one arm around her shoulders, "when in poetry class, you wrote that _charming_ little verse and tried slipping it into Eishun's sleeve when he—"

"Forgive me, my lord," said Kurosawa, without much reverence, "but I've long since forgotten any such incident."

"Nyamo, you're red as a persimmon! Oh, I remember it all like it was yesterday. Are you going to invite me in or what?—It's so _cold_ out here! Ugh, ugh, ugh! I'm going to have those priests pray us up a warm winter, or else what are they good for?"

Discarding her hat in the threshold, the Lord Magistrate hurried inside.

"Really," said Kurosawa. "While I am…honored by your visit, I don't understand why you always feel it necessary to go digging up the most embarrassing kind of…And does this behavior really suit a person of your stature!"

"It's the largesse of the ruling class," said Yukari airily. "Like the rectitude of the samurai, it's what gives us our special charm. But I wouldn't expect an idiot sword instructor like you to understand these subtleties."

"_What did you just_—ahem, that is, I don't believe I've ever heard of any such 'largesse,' your Excellency. It would seem to me as if you're just being _extremely rude_—as you always have been and always will be, no matter how many times you get reborn, you incorrigible woman!"

Yukari cackled. "Now that's the fighting spirit I remember! You may just be a blockhead, Nyamo, but you shouldn't lose your fire. You're only as old as you act, you know."

At that Kurosawa, who had been standing behind her guest with fists balled, paused.

There were streaks of white in her hair. The years seemed to have treated Yukari more kindly, but it might have only been the judicious application of makeup. In any case, it could certainly be said that she didn't _act_ any older than ever.

She studied Yukari's smile. Her own expression softened.

"I'll make another pot of tea," she said.

"So did I surprise you?" said Yukari. "It's the only way I could get out of that house, with all those stuffy guards. And have you tried getting a palanquin up the side of that hill? No thank you!"

They knelt in the garden, in the sunlight, each holding a cup of Kurosawa's specially-brewed green tea.

Yukari sipped. "Eyech, this stuff is strong! I don't get how being a warrior means you have to make your whole life miserable. You take cold baths, do things 'till your muscles ache, drink bitter tea…"

With a smile, Kurosawa let this deadly insult to her hospitality pass.

"I am glad to see you, I suppose," she said. "How many years has it been, now…?"

When Yukari was still Lord Tanizaki's youngest daughter, and Kurosawa the head instructor of a dojo, they were able to see each other frequently. But the death of Yukari's father and brothers, and her assumption of the post of Lord Magistrate, had come well before Kurosawa's retirement.

"It must be four," Kurosawa answered her own question.

"That's right! Four _years_ of that stupid court. You know, none of those retainers can take a joke. And none of them turn as red as _you_ when I make fun of them, Nyamo! They have no guts, that's the trouble with them."

Still, Yukari—to Kurosawa's immeasurable surprise—had lasted four years at her post. Some part of the work must have appealed to her, and given a purpose to her boundless energy.

"_Oi_, Nyamo," Yukari asked suddenly. "Tell me something. Who's the greatest student you ever taught?"

Kurosawa's eyes widened. "That's certainly unexpected. I didn't know you had any interest in…"

"Don't get a big head! I still don't care about any of that sword-swinging stuff. I want to know for my own reasons, that's all."

"Well—I would have to say Sakamoto Kaori. When I retired, having no children as you see, I passed the ownership of the dojo into her hands."

"You think she could beat anyone, then?"

"Anyone—? Certainly not. You only asked the best student _I_ had ever taught. If you want me to talk about the greatest swordsman in Japan, that's an entirely different question…one that I'm not certain I could answer."

"Aw, c'mon, Nyamo! Don't you have any faith in your own style?"

"Kaori…" Kurosawa chose her words carefully. "Kaori is a gifted swordswoman. Of my students through the years, I believe that she has attained the most profound understanding of the Kurosawa style—an understanding on level with my own. She is the person most qualified to transmit it to future generations of students. But technical mastery and natural skill are two different categories…and Kaori is no prodigy. In physical strength, in grace, in sheer force of character, there are no doubt fighters in Kyoto today who surpass her—and the first lesson that I taught her, as I teach to all of my students, was to recognize the limits of her own—Yukari!"

Yukari had pretended to fall asleep, making loud snoring noises. Perceiving that Kurosawa had stopped talking, she broke in:

"Yeah, yeah. So anyway, who's the _best_ student you've ever taught? I mean like the toughest."

"That…" said Kurosawa. "Yes. That is a rather different question."

She sipped her tea, and sighed.

"The most impressive student who ever learned my style," she said, "neither learned it from me, nor graduated my school."

Yukari squinted. "I don't get it."

"She was…" Kurosawa hesitated. Even to such a close friend, could she admit her school's shame? But she had always urged honesty on her students. "She was only a scullery maid. An orphan. I had known from the time I took her in that she had potential. But I was reluctant to teach her…With her status, it would have been difficult for her to gain the respect of samurai. All her life she would have been looked on as a freak—a misfit. I had hoped to give her a gentler fate. And I had no idea of the true extent of her talent, until that day…"

"This isn't going to be another long story, is it?"

"Fine, fine, I'll try and keep it short. One day my first class of students and I found the girl in the practice hall, swinging a wooden sword around. For all I know this had been going on for years—she would sneak in at night, take out a sword and practice, then replace it and slip away before morning. But that night she had become so entranced…The students with me were beginners, relatively. They thought it was funny, and one of them moved in to disarm her. But she was lost in her swordplay—I could see in her eyes that she had become a different person. She struck his hand, crippling him.

"The others students surrounded her with their swords. I should have intervened right away, but I admit I was fascinated…she struck out on all sides of her, driving them back again and again. At first I thought it was luck, her pure wild energy. But then I began to perceive her style.

"It was like the Kurosawa style, and it was unlike—it was her own style. She had never properly trained a day in her life with the sword. But somehow, by catching glimpses of my lessons through that screen, she had learned more than those students in their two years of rigorous instruction. By the time I finally made up my mind to act, two of them were badly injured—the girl couldn't control her own strength! It was as if she were possessed by a demon. I called my students back, drew my own sword and faced the girl. I expected she would lose heart at once, as soon as our eyes met—but she didn't.

"I disarmed her. But we crossed swords five times. I taught the Kurosawa style for eleven years of my life, Yukari, and only the best of my students—the elite, seniors like Kaori Sakamoto—have managed to cross swords with me even twice…Kaori once crossed swords with me three times. But that was after years of study."

Kurosawa was silent. She stared into the black depths of her tea.

"I thought you promised it wasn't going to be a long story," said Yukari.

"I wonder where she is now," whispered Kurosawa.

"Well, what happened to her?"

"I had no choice," she sighed. "She'd broken the dojo rules, wounded several of my students. Legally she was culpable—but I spared her that. Still, I had to expel her from my household. I'll never forget the way she cried…but at the same time, she must have known that for the first time, she had a chance to carve her own way in life. I gave her as much money as I could spare—and even suggested that she consider marriage to one of our students. But she wouldn't consider any of it, and struck out on her own. She told me she didn't know where she was going, but that she was in a hurry to get there…and that was the last I ever saw of her."

"How old was the brat?"

"Let's see, at the time she must have been—eighteen. Five years ago. She would be twenty-three now, as old as I was when I won my first bout."

"And you haven't got a clue where she is?—You're sure?"

Kurosawa placed her cup of tea on the gravel. Looking steadily at Yukari, she said:

"Forgive me, your Lordship. But what _is_ your interest?"

Yukari was looking toward the city. Her expression was more thoughtful than usual—an unreal spectacle. But perhaps age had mellowed her the slightest amount.

"Then she might be one of those ronin," she said, ignoring Kurosawa's question. "They're like flies, Nyamo—swarming all over the city. But big, _biting_ flies! Dangerous. Anyone who grabs a cheap sword thinks he can make a name for himself, and honestly? The line between ronin and _yakuza_ if getting pretty thin."

"Hmm," said Kurosawa.

She lifted her tea again, sipped gently.

"I've got to do something about it," said Yukari.

"Forgive me, your Lordship, but—while I'm sure it's as you say, I don't know what you could do about it. Imposing laws on the ronin would only make them resentful—and as you say there's dangerous. As in many things, I suspect it's best to let matters take their course…"

"That's always _your_ way, Nyamo. Boring! _I_ got a better plan."

And she turned to her old friend, a glint in her eye.

Kurosawa drew back. "I don't think I like that look. Don't you remember the time—" Then she caught herself, realizing how close she had come to sharing in Yukari's habit of unearthing old bones. She looked down. "I hope you don't mean to do anything rash."

"Relax, relax! I'd never step outside the law."

"But as Lord Magistrate, you _are_ the law."

"We-e-ell…very interesting. I'll have to think about that. But what I've got planned is nothing out of the ordinary." She leaned closer, as she had in days past to whisper in Kurosawa's ear. "_I'm going to have a tournament_."

"A fighting tournament!"

Even in a time when fighting prowess was of great importance, such official events were rare.

"That's right! I'll invite every samurai in Kyoto to come try their hand. We'll weed out the weak ones in some preliminaries. Then the tough ones will fight it out—and some will get killed, some crippled, some just humiliated! It'll really separate the men from the boys, Nyamo."

"Don't tell me you plan to kill them once they're all in one place."

"Nyamo, Nyamo! Really. By the end, the weak ones will be thinned out, I'll _know_ who the strong ones are at least, and the winner—the best fighter in all Kyoto—I'll offer a job as my personal sword instructor. Not that _I_ care about that stuff," she repeated, "but they can teach my retainers, and then they'll be where I can see 'em. What do you think?"

Kurosawa pondered. "It seems to me the event will be chaotic. You'll need a firm hand to keep order."

"Hey, no problem; I'll hire some ronin beforehand for security."

"And…"

How would it play out? Would undisciplined country ronin really submit to the formality of a tournament? But Yukari was right—a lot of swaggerers would be quickly put in their place. The thought brought a smile to her lips. So many ronin and samurai only talked a good fight, but when swords were drawn…

"In fact," she said, to her great surprise, "it sounds like an excellent idea."

"And I only want tough guys, so be sure to send that Sakamoto of yours."

"Mm—yes. I'll inform her."

Yukari narrowed her eyes. "Hey. Wait. You sounded kind of surprised, there."

"Well…"

"I come up with great ideas all the time!" said Yukari. "Even in my sleep! Better than the ideas some idiot _sword instructor_ could come up with, anyway! And furthermore, I'll have you know—hey! Are you listening to me, subject?"

Kurosawa sighed. She drank deeply from her cup.


	5. Sakaki

AN: _YouTube alert: I used to think YouTube was the work of the devil before I discovered anime music videos. If you haven't seen all of the following, I don't really know how you bear the crushing existential pain of being alive:_

_- Azumanga Daioh vs. MC Hammer_

_-"I Hate High School" (Semi-Charmed Life)_

_-Azumanga Daioh: Inward Singing_

_...that is all._

* * *

5. Sakaki-san 

When Lord Magistrate Yukari had spoken of the many undisciplined ronin wandering the streets of Kyoto, she might well have been referring to Kennichi Mirata.

Mirata had come a long way in the world since his days as a pupil of the Kurosawa school, but his movement had not necessarily been in an upward direction. In his heart—or so he would like to imagine—he was still true to the principles of good swordsmanship and solid character ingrained in him by his teacher. Unlike a certain scullery maid, he himself had graduated with full honors, and a certificate specifying that he had mastered the five exoteric secrets, and two of the four esoteric secrets, of the Kurosawa style. But after that day Mirata, like many young samurai, had fallen into some trouble.

First Lord Satsuke Jurozaemon, burdened with debts, had released Mirata's father—an old retainer—from his position. His father survived by selling a number of the family treasures, then becoming a teacher of calligraphy—but Mirata, still swelled with the pride of his graduation, struck out on his own. He had some success in challenging the local champions of villages, along with other wandering ronin, to duels; however when he first lost, receiving a serious wound in his side, he realized that such duels were not to be taken lightly. His talent took him some distance in the world, but it was not worth staking his life: he wanted to make a living.

So it happened that he gradually resorted to offering "protection" to travelers on the highroads around Kyoto. There were, of course, many dangerous ronin and bandits who preyed on travelers, and those who refused Mirata's help—always offered with a certain peculiar insistency—often, tragically, found themselves the victims of just such an attack. If only the name of the Kurosawa school could not be shamed by reporting that several of Mirata's fellow graduates, along with the usual assortment of vagabonds and gamblers, took part in these activities.

We live our lives, so to speak, one step at a time. Mirata had a tendency toward vanity and preoccupation with trivial matters, and while a part of him dully recognized that he was committing activities that would shame his father, teacher and ancestors, day by day he managed to push these thoughts to the back of his mind. If they ever did gain ascendancy, he was quick to insist to himself that given time, once he had "gotten on his feet," he would "pay up" his karma with good, honorable deeds and prayers to Kannon.

How many men, of much better fiber than Mirata, have been led down the wrong path by just such thoughts? Or rather, their way down the path has been quieted by such thoughts, as wagon-wheels are muffled. But one day several years after his graduation found him and his companions drinking in a small, roadside inn between Nara and Kyoto. Mirata, now a man of thirty-two years with a delicate complexion and flippant manner, one other supposed adept of the Kurosawa style, and three tattooed gamblers who carried crude weapon like sickles, chains and knives. Among the gamblers seated with Mirata was one example of each of these weapons.

Recently, Mirata's face bore a look of constant, intense distraction. It was as if he wanted to burn away the knowledge of his deeds by reckless behavior, and consequently his deeds had become more cruel. The fruits of his most recent one were still among them, seated at their table.

"Hey, brat," he said, squinting into the sunlight coming through the door. "You want something to drink?"

Scarcely a moment passed before one of the gamblers slurred: "Y'all better answer the boss when he talks t'youse!"

"Y-yes," said the girl. "I'd like that…very much, thank you."

Although she looked miserable, she still spoke like a noblewoman. One more reason to hold onto her.

Mirata and his men had encountered her walking down the highroad, alone, a bundle on her shoulder. Although the small bundle seemed to contain all her worldly affects, she was dressed uncommonly well in a purple silk tunic; and the guileless way she dealt with them was only further proof of a fancy upbringing. She wouldn't answer their questions about where she had come from, politely dodging them, but one thing was clear—somewhere behind her, there was money. And as it was getting harder to milk money from adult travelers, who were growing more wary, Mirata pounced on the chance like the wild predator he had become.

And besides…with those two pigtails of hers, she was easy to grab hold of.

Vaguely combining reasons for detaining her—they were concerned for her safety; as samurai, it was their duty to control vagabonds on the roads; they had the vague suspicion she might be up to no good—they had taken possession of her. Now Mirata had to figure some way to squeeze out the profit. Though by now she was plainly afraid of them, she still refused to admit where she had come from, or where she was going, or why—"I'm afraid I don't know very much," she'd say, self-deprecatingly. In her own way she had remarkable strength of character. Mirata almost admired her.

"Sagi," he said, to his fellow swordsman.

Sagi, meaning _heron_ but also _fraud_, was the new name of a student who had devoted himself even more wholeheartedly to the path of evil than Mirata; now his face wore a dark self-satisfied look, and if killing needed to be done, he was often the one to do it.

"Yeah, boss?"

"Get the girl some sake."

She grew red. "Oh, no, but I couldn't possibly—!"

"Be quiet," said Mirata softly.

His right hand fingered the guard of his sword—not even to threaten her, but wholly unconsciously. It was as if he had an itch to draw it, simply for the sake of committing an act of violence.

The girl ducked her head. "Yes, sir. Please forgive me."

"You're a smart one, aren't you?" said Mirata.

"Well—no, I wouldn't say—"

"And so polite. Well, _be_ smart then, and keep quiet."

Sagi returned and placed the pitcher of sake on the table. The gamblers reached out for it, grinning, but Mirata beat their hands back. "Idiots!—Didn't I tell you this is for our guest? Now, please, _ojosama_—drink."

He grinned.

The girl looked back, and her large eyes were trembling with tears. For a moment Mirata felt a faint pang of conscience—but that was only her defense, like a samurai's sword. He had to be stronger even than that, or else what was he worth?

The sake would make her drowsy, and with any luck, talkative. And then…

The inn was small. At another table, an old farming couple was doing their best to ignore Mirata and his men. In one corner, though, seemingly napping, was a tall person of indeterminate age and gender, wrapped in a traveling cloak, a basket hat hung over their face. Entering, Mirata had taken them—from their apparent ease in the surroundings—for some relative of the proprietor. Now they stirred.

"Hey," Sagi whispered to him. "What do you make of that?"

Mirata cast another glance at the sleeping person. Out loud, he said: "I don't make anything of it. What's gotten into you?"

Sagi's expression was wary. "I don't like it. I get a feeling—"

"From me?" said the person.

It was a deep woman's voice. Sagi flinched.

The gamblers, the girl all looked around, considering her. Then she reached up with one hand, now plainly a long-fingered feminine hand, and took the hat away from her face.

She looked somewhat sleepy still, and blinked her eyes in the light. Mirata gaped—she was astonishingly beautiful.

Looking at Sagi, she said: "What sort of feeling?"

Mirata looked at Sagi. He was glaring like an angry dog, and didn't answer.

"I find that interesting," said the woman, her voice soft, gentle. "I also sometimes receive such impressions of people. In fact, looking at you…"

Her eyes met Sagi's. She didn't blink. After a moment, still snarling, Sagi looked away.

However, as the rich brat of a girl looked at her, the tears brimming in her own eyes dried.

"So you were awake this whole time," said Mirata. His hand still lingered on the guard of his sword. "Hear anything interesting?"

The woman nodded.

"But not anything you'd care to go around repeating—right?"

For what seemed like a long time, the woman silent. Then she got to her feet. The traveling cloak fell away from her shoulders.

For some reason at that moment, although it was nearly winter, Mirata thought of watermelons.

The woman's dark hair fell to her waist. She carried no weapon, but from her bearing, it was plain to see that she was a ronin like himself. She was immensely tall. And although she could plainly see their weapons, she was not afraid of them.

"Well, big sis," he said. "What's your name?"

"You may call me Sakaki," she said. "If you wish to know my home, I have none; nor could I tell you my destination."

"A ronin, eh? You look pretty strong. Say…but it's hard to make a living these days, isn't it? I've got a proposition for you."

There was, he reflected inwardly, more than one proposition he would like to make to her, but for the time being he confined himself to business.

The woman's expression remained cool. "I serve no master," she said. "However, I still follow the Way of Sword, and I call myself a samurai."

"What's your point?"

"To a samurai, honor is life. To accept such a shameful way of life as you lead—would be the same as death."

"You looking for a fight, then?" said Mirata. "I wouldn't advise it."

One of the gamblers spit out: "You stupid lady! You don't even got a sword, but you call yourself a samurai?"

Sakaki answered him. "They say that to a samurai, his sword is his soul. It follows, then, that his soul is also his sword."

Mirata's men were bristling, chafing at the bit. He himself, as much as he admired the woman, wasn't willing to stand for more of this insolence. A fight in such a public place might be dangerous—but what was she thinking anyway, challenging them without a sword? Could it be some kind of trap?

"All that talk about honor and souls doesn't put rice on the table," he said. "Don't judge us. If you leave now, I'm willing to overlook the insult."

"They say," said Sakaki, "that the same shaking which makes perfume sweeter, makes fetid water stink. A poor farmer has the right to look down on such as you."

Sagi leapt to his feet. "I'll shake you!" he yelled, and drew his sword.

The elderly couple at the nearby table fled, shrieking; from behind a curtain an old woman, the wife of the proprietor, stumbled out. She placed herself between them, feebly waving her arms.

"Oh, no!" she said in her creaking voice. "No fighting, please, no fighting! Go outside if you must fight…!"

"Sagi!" barked Mirata. "Don't be a fool, she's trying to provoke us."

To the old woman, Sagi said: "Don't worry, granny—it won't take a second."

"I, also, need only a moment," said Sakaki, then she placed one hand on the old woman's shoulder. "Don't worry."

"'Don't worry?'—How can say that! Every time you ronin fight in here you smash up everything, and I'm sick of it! How can you—"

"Don't worry," Sakaki repeated, her voice like a smooth wind through bamboo trees. "No one will be harmed."

The rich brat had put the table between herself and the combatants, although she didn't dare to run—one of the gamblers was keeping an eye on her. She watched them with her damp eyes, frightened but also, it seemed, fascinated.

"We'll see about that," said Sagi. He carried two swords taken from the side of another man, and had drawn the shorter of them. Mirata got to his feet—he carried only one sword, but it was his own.

"You really insist on fighting us?" he said. "You want to throw your life away?"

Sakaki said nothing.

With a sharp, quick yell, Sagi charged her, the short sword held out in front of him. It was slightly over two feet long, made longer by his bent arms. Sakaki's leg was slightly longer as it snapped out and caught him in the stomach.

He groaned, fell; in a moment she was holding a sword. Blinking crazily, Mirata realized she had torn it from Sagi's side. She brought down the pommel on his head, and he collapsed.

"_Chi_." Mirata spit. He drew his sword slowly, raised it, and held the guard close to his cheekbone.

Sakaki stepped over Sagi's prone body. She held the sword in front of her with one hand, an insane stance, as if she were only gauging its weight. She took another step and he swung.

Lightly lifting the sword, Sakaki let Mirata's pass in front of her—the tip barely grazed the front of her kimono. Now she held the sword with both hands over her head. If she had wanted to, Mirata knew, she could have killed him with a single downward stroke in the instant it took him to recover his balance.

A mistake he wouldn't make again.

He drew back; the table was behind him. Breathing heavily, he began slowly moving to one side, hoping the gamblers wouldn't interfere. Sakaki followed him. Now that her eyes were on him, rather than Sagi, he could feel their power—it was like cold water flowing from a pool. He felt his arms growing heavy.

Then she spoke: "Please be careful of the table. I did promise the owner there would be no harm done."

Mirata goggled. Then with the slightest forward motion, she swung and cut his sword in half. Another stroke and it was clipped just above the guard. He felt as if his heart had exploded inside of him and he collapsed on his knees.

"Bastard!"—"Die!"—the gamblers leapt at Sakaki. The first two, one carrying a sickle, the other a knife, came side-by-side; with an impossibly subtle motion Sakaki's sword slid between their heads, moving rapidly one way, then the other. The two flats struck them on their temples and they staggered away from each other; then with the tip of the sword she tore the sickle out of one man's hand, and with the return stroke cut the blade of the knife.

The third man stood between the tables. In his hands he held a length of chain, an iron bar attached to either end, and he was spinning one of the bars above his head. A canny fighter, he remained unafraid even after seeing his companions fall.

"Not bad, sis," he said.

Sakaki raised her sword above one shoulder in a reversed stance. The gambler swung his chain. The room was still. The proprietor hid behind a table and shuddered. The young girl watched.

With his other hand the gambler was holding a length of the chain stretched out in front of him, protecting him. With one lightning stroke Sakaki cut through it. He had been expecting as much, and swung the iron bar at her exposed head—but he hadn't counted on Sakaki's return stroke. As quickly as she had brought the blade down, she brought it up again, and the point lodged underneath his chin. If she had reversed the blade, it would have cut his head in half; as it was, he stumbled backward, and the iron bar flew out of his hand and struck the wall. Sakaki's sword pointed at his throat. He choked, glared. After a moment he dropped the other half of his weapon.

A shrill voice: "Ma'am! Please, watch out!"

Sakaki turned her head in time to see Sagi, holding his short sword, charging her silently from behind. But when their eyes met, he stopped still.

They stood a long moment looking at each other.

"It isn't my wish to end life," said Sakaki. "I can see in your eyes that you are a murderer. But if you pray to Kannon, perhaps she will forgive even you."

Sagi's knees were shaking. He threw his sword away, then as if fearing for his life he dashed out the door; the first two gamblers, having recovered, were on his heels. The third gambler slouched after them. Only Mirata remained, still kneeling on the floor.

Sakaki turned to him.

"I suggest that you leave along with your comrades."

Leaning on the table, he managed to get to his feet.

"D-damn you…this isn't over!"

"That's correct," said Sakaki. "Your life isn't over. You still have the chance to atone for your deeds."

* * *

Many miles away, in the dressing-room of Kaori Sakamoto, the seventh heir of the Kurosawa style of swordsmanship, the master was preparing for a visit to the temple. Her attendant Chihiro fixed the claps of her underrobe while two other girls held the fancy embroidered kimono given to her as parting gift by Kurosawa. Suddenly, without any clear reason, the master stiffened. 

"Kaorin?" said Chihiro, peering around her. "What's the matter, did I poke you?"

Kaori shook her head.

"I'm not sure…" Her expression was pensive. "It's just that all of a sudden I felt…that somewhere, something really awesome just happened…"

* * *

"Wait!" 

At the word, Sakaki looked back. She walked by the side of a stream, once again without a weapon—she had left Sagi's with the proprietor of the inn, to sell, by way of apology—her long hair glancing out behind her. When she turned, it blew out in one great sheath. She stood waiting.

The little girl stumbled up to her, panting.

"Wait," she wheezed. "Please…"

Sakaki nodded.

"You shouldn't strain yourself. Why don't we sit down?"

It was a fine day, blue sky, green grass. The slight cold only seemed to crystallize its beauty. They sat by the side of the stream, and Sakaki opened her leather traveling sack and removed two rice balls wrapped in oak leaves. Somewhat awkwardly, she offered one to her companion.

"Oh—thank you," said the girl, still trying to catch her breath. "Thank you…somehow I know you're going to say that there's no need to thank you, I mean for saving me, so…I'm not going to. But you know what I owe to you, ma'am. All I want…is to know your name!"

"I told you. It's Sakaki."

"But is that really your name…?"

"It's as good a name as any," said Sakaki. "Yours?"

"Call me Chiyo," the girl said proudly; now she had recovered herself. "But, that's not my real name, or at least it's not my full name. So, I suppose I understand now…"

She took a bite of her rice ball.

"Miss Sakaki thank you, this is delicious!"

Sakaki, as she was given to, only nodded.

"Tell me," said Chiyo. "What style did you use? That bandit said that he practiced the Kurosawa style…"

Sakaki's expression darkened. "If that's true, it's unfortunate. I always heard that the Kurosawa style was strong and noble.—But my style is called the Kamineko style."

"Did you learn it from a great master?" said Chiyo. "Or did you create it yourself, Miss Sakaki?"

"It's my own style. But, you could say that I learned it. I named it after the single adversary I could never defeat, and you could say that I learnt it from him. I do think that I learned more from him than I ever learned from another person."

The 'God of Cats' style…more than another person? Could she have learned her style from a god?

"Miss Sakaki, you're incredible," said Chiyo.

Coloring slightly, Sakaki shook her head.

"That's not true. I'm an ordinary person."

"No, no, Miss Sakaki! I'm so glad to have met you, and not just because you saved me…" Chiyo went on. "I'm traveling this country to find out what sort of place it is. My—father always told me that it was a dirty, violent and dangerous place. And for a while I was starting to be afraid that he was right. But now I've met a good person like you!—and I just wanted to know your name."

"To see the country…" Sakaki said softly.

She was daintily nibbling her own meal. Now she stood up.

"Forget it," she said. "If you have a home, you should go back there."

"Oh, but I can't! Not when there's so much left to see. I feel as if the great journey of my life is only just beginning. To understand the world, to understand people…that's my dream. No, more than that. One could say—that it was my duty!"

The young girl's eyes were full of fire. Looking down at her, Sakaki seemed unable to keep from smiling.

"You're very brave," she said. "But you're still too small to be thinking about duty."

"It's true," said Chiyo, "I'm not tall and strong like you. But someday, I hope to be! And I want to start learning how to be strong now."

"It's better to be small," said Sakaki. "That's—cuter."

Chiyo looked confused. "But isn't it more _impressive_ to be tall?"

At that, Sakaki hesitated. She still held the half-eaten rice ball in one hand.

"To be cute…" she said. "Rather than impressive, this is…"

"Yes? Yes?"

"This is stronger."

Chiyo gazed at the stream in front of them.

"Stronger…?"

Sakaki finished her rice ball, licked her lips once, and then her hand. The gesture was rather like a cat's.


	6. The Great Meeting

AN: _According to Wikipedia the modern buildings of Kiyomizudera, including the famous stage (which some anime fans might be familiar with—Negima, anyone?) weren't built until 1633, slightly after this story is set—I'd place it in 1603, three years after the battle of Sekigahara. Oh, well _:-)_  
_

_The Breaking Waves: the story that gives you (incorrect) lessons on Japanese history and culture!_

_Speaking of which, re: the last chapter, I'm following the lead of my old, old edition of Kurosawa's _Yojimbo _in translating _yakuza _as gambler, because I think it's funny. I'm not sure if they had _yakuza _in these times, but apparently they had them when _Yojimbo _is set, a scant two hundred years later…speaking of which, I apologize for my inconsistent use of Japanese, my inconsistent italicization of Japanese when it used, and my lack of translation even when it's italicized…I guess in general I'm writing for people who are as weirdly obsessed with Japan as I am._

_By the way, it occurs to me that if you didn't know AzuDai, you'd probably think—from the way it's set up—that Kagura and Sakaki were the same person, until this chapter. But as dumb as this sounds, I think it's kind of cool that they're not…? And you'd read it and kind of be surprised._

* * *

6. The Great Meeting

Certain men, especially elderly men, claim to be able to sense a change in the weather. As a storm comes on, some part of their body begins to ache. We know now that weather is related to changes in the pressure of the air, so that there might be truth in such claims; in any case there are those who claim, further, to be able to sense calamitous events of all kinds.

As a man who had spent many hours of his life in mediation, attuning himself to the spiritual realities of the world, it might be expected that Magoro Tonza—head abbot of the Kiyomizu temple—would posses such a sense. While the battle of Sekigahara was taking place many miles away, it was rumored that the abbot sat motionless with his eyes screwed up in pain.

Still, it was a pleasant, warm day. The abbot was strolling through the temple grounds with a wandering priest to whom he had taken a liking, showing her the famous shrines and sub-temples of Kiyomizudera. There was no cause for alarm. While several of the uncouth ronin flocking to Kyoto occasionally wandered up to the temple, even they, in the presence of the Buddha and _kami_, would often adopt a chastened and gentle manner. Then why did he have a sense of foreboding, exactly as he did before thunder and lightning erupted from the sky? At least one powerful guest must be visiting the temple, he decided—although he could not yet tell if their intentions were evil.

His new friend the priest walked happily beside him. She had introduced herself as Kasuga Ayumu, originally of Wakayama—"but for some reason," she added, "a lot of folks call me _Osaka_."

It was clear from her accent that she had spent time in that city. That she so readily admitted it was one more sign of her unusual guilelessness—Osaka was now the seat of the Toyotomi Hideyori, considered by many the lawful ruler of Japan. Large numbers of samurai and ronin flocked to his standard while, in Edo, Tokugawa Ieyasu schemed (it was said) for an excuse to do away with the Toyotomis for good. But it was clear from her mirror-like eyes that the priest Ayumu cared little for such matters. To her, the purpose of the cosmos was a couple of singing thrushes inside a bush.

"Hey Tonza, look!—That bush is singin'! Ha, ha, ha!"

She had been incapacitated with laughter for several minutes.

While Ayumu seemed to know a great deal about the Buddhist scriptures, Tonza—himself a member of the Tendai sect—was still unsure which teaching she followed. She spoke with equal enthusiasm about devotion to Amida, Kannon, the saints Dengyo Daishi and Kobo Daishi, Nichiren and the Lotus Sutra, as well as many _kami_ both local and national. While it was not strange for a Japanese to express a similarly broad view, Tonza still found it remarkable, and delighted in questioning her.

"What then, in your view, is the meaning of enlightenment?"

"Enlightenment?" said Ayumu. "Is that like when you get hit with a flamin' arrow?"

Tonza lapsed into devout silence at the profundity of this answer.

"And what, in your view, is the meaning of nonbeing?"

"Nonbeing?" Ayumu looked, for a moment, at the vivid scenery as they passed by. Then she began laughing. She laughed quite heartily for some time, repeating again: "Nonbeing…nonbeing! Hee, hee, hee. Nonbeing. Tonza-san, you're too much!"

Tonza bowed his head, again astonished.

"But hey," said Ayumu, suddenly looking around. "What this?"

"Ah." Tonza smiled upon having come to one of the temple's most famous sites. "Have you, in all your travels, never heard of the famous Stage of Kiyomizudera?"

Ayumu shook her head.

They stood on a large expanse of wood. The Stage of Kiyomizudera was a balcony overlooking the city of Kyoto, built on a hillside. It was a long distance to the thorny ground. If one looked straight forward, the view was breathtaking; if one looked down it became rather daunting.

"When one is about to do something reckless," Tonza explained, "I have heard people begin to say that it is 'jumping off the stage of Kiyomizu.' And the legend runs that if one jumps, and survives the attempt, the fondest wish of one's heart will be granted."

Ayumu clapped her hands, delighted. "Amazin'!"

"I'm not certain I approve, since this takes devotion away from its proper aim—the Buddha—and places it in the hands of winsome gods. But a man's life, and his choice, are his own…"

"Do people really jump off, then?"

"Yes, I am afraid that while we attempt to stop them, some do."

"An' do they live, or do they go _splat_ like melons?"

Tonza grimaced. "They do live—mostly."

There was vegetation at the foot of the steep cliff.

"How horrifyin'!" said Ayumu, with a broad grain on her face. "But do they get their wishes an' everything?"

"Such matters are difficult to ascertain."

"I see…"

Ayumu stood by the railing, gazing down at the drop.

Suddenly, moved by another strange premonition, Tonza reached out and took hold of her sleeve. She looked around with a curious smile.

Tonza shook his head. "It's nothing."

Then he became conscious of a person on the other side of him. Although he could not yet see them, he was aware of them. They must be, among other people, like those uncanny trees and rocks that were partitioned off with ropes as the homes of spirits.

He turned his head and saw a woman of average height, wearing a man's traveling cloak. Her hair was cut short almost in spikes, an unusual style. He had only realized she was a woman because, in spite of everything, she somehow possessed a strong aura of maidenhood.

The wind slightly stirred the tips of her hair.

"Ma'am," he said sternly, although in truth, he was a little afraid of her—even of her turned back. "If you were considering jumping, I would strongly advise against it."

The woman turned her head. To Tonza's surprise, she grinned.

"I guess that would be kind of stupid, huh?"

She leaned on the railing. Now that he saw her from the front, Tonza realized, with some embarrassment, that there were other reasons she could never be taken for a man.

Her face was broad, open and baked a dark color. She had a rough country manner to her speech, but there was refinement in the way she held her shoulders.

"I used to pray to the gods," she said, "but then I realized I didn't need the prayers—my enemies did. I could jump off, but it wouldn't change anything. If I can't do it, I'll end up dead anyway—so it's either now or later."

Tonza gave a slight bow. "Young lady, I approve of this attitude."

He wondered, though, what such a striking person might have been about to wish for. She didn't look like the sort to get hung up over a love affair…

Ayumu's loud voice interrupted his thoughts. They both looked around.

"Hey, Kagura-dono! He-ey! Kagura-dono, hey!"

Although they were standing very close by, Ayumu was speaking loudly and waving one hand as if to get the attention of a distant person. The woman traveler was looking at her with great curiosity, and not a little puzzlement. Then her mouth fell open.

"I remember you!"

"Well of course I remember _you_, Kagura-dono. I don't go forgettin' things. Don't call me no fool!"

"But," whispered Kagura. "Did I ever tell you my name…?"

"Names 'r easy," said Ayumu cryptically. "Anyway, what have you done with your life? Wait…don't bother tellin' me. I see."

Tonza, looking on, now saw something he wouldn't have imagined possible. All at once Ayumu looked terrifically angry. Her eyes burned, and Kagura, the taller of them by more than a head, flinched back.

Ayumu struck the wooden stage with her staff.

"I warned ya!" she said, "but y'all just wouldn't listen! There's no hope for you, Kagura-dono, no hope at all. Don't you remember the lesson I taught you? _Don't you remember?_"

"I…"

Kagura looked surprised, and not only by Ayumu's anger. She reached into a pocket of her traveling cloak. Out came a small, gold-brown object—a roast chestnut.

"I totally forgot that was there," she said quietly.

All three persons—the head abbot, the priest, the traveler—gazed together at that strange object.

Finally Ayumu said: "Don't you understand yet?"

Kagura shook her head.

"I guess I just carried it around," she said. "I'm sorry."

Ayumu, too, was shaking her head, looking sorrowful.

"I can see it in your whole body, Kagura-dono. You're doin' things the wrong way! And you're about to do something even worse—somethin' terrible! That's why you came here today."

"I don't know anything, honest!" Kagura held up her hands. "I just got into town. I wanted to pay my respects to the Buddha n' all, and my ancestors…even though I don't know who _they_ are. And then I came up here, and I thought…"

"You're ancestors are weepin' in the afterlife," said Ayumu. "They must've brought us together again so I could talk some sense into you, Kagura-dono."

Tonza said nothing. He could tell very little about the strange woman, but during their short acquaintance, he had gained too great a respect for Ayumu's spiritual discernment to question her judgments.

"Well, anyway," said Kagura, somehow guessing that even if Ayumu's threats were serious, they were serious in some way peculiar to Ayumu, "don't keep calling me _that_. I'm no master yet—but that's what I aim to change."

"Forgive me, ma'am," said Tonza. "Are you a ronin?"

Kagura's clothes were all a simple, dark brown, like her skin. Underneath her cloak one could make out the shapes of two swords. She nodded.

"Uh-huh."

Tonza lowered his head. "The path of a ronin is indeed dangerous. I will offer prayers for your continued safety."

"Like I said, you'd do better to pray for my enemies. There's so many weak people in Japan…that's all. I'm not strong. But everyone else is so weak…"

As she spoke, a different look came into her eyes. Before they had been bright, even friendly, like the eyes of a farmer's son. But now Tonza did not need Ayumu's unique perception to see a cloud of darkness descend behind them.

Kagura shook her head.

"Anyway, I came here because I heard there was a tournament for fighters. That should bring out the strong ones—so I thought I'd try my luck. Are you still wandering around, Osa—sorry." She shook her head again. "I was about to call you Osaka! Ha, ha, don't know why I called you that!"

"Actually, Kagura-dono," said Ayumu, "I came to enter th' tournament as well."

Kagura laughed. "Ah-ha-ha, you're so _funny_, Osaka! I been all the way out to Edo and back since we met, but I never met anyone like you again."

"I believe Miss Kasuga is serious," said Tonza.

Ayumu's expression was grave.

Kagura stumbled back against the railing. "Woah, really!—No way!"

"Were there time," said Ayumu, "I'd be happy to demonstrate my Empty Body staff technique for you, Kagura-dono. But at the moment there are more important things. You got to promise me—" she took one of Kagura's dark hands between her own—"not to enter that tournament, nevermind what's about t' happen!"

"What!" said Kagura, panicked. "What's about to happen, what?"

A voice cut through the still air over the Stage of Kiyomizudera.

"Sakaki! _Sa-ka-ki_!"

Tonza and Kagura spun around. Ayumu, seeming unsurprised, turned more slowly.

In the center of the stage stood a samurai with three retainers. A standard, with the emblem of a bright red crab, was held by one of the man, and it snapped in a powerful breeze. The samurai wore a lacquer chestplate over green robes, prepared for battle.

At the far end of the stage, a tall, long-haired woman, wearing a simple black kimono, accompanied by a young girl, stopped. She half-turned.

"Ma'am!" said Tonza firmly. "Please refrain from drawing your sword on the temple grounds!"

The samurai, ignoring him, pulled a terrifically long sword free of its sheath. Although it was a _nodachi_, meant to be worn across the back, she had somehow fitted it at her side and drew it with impressive dexterity. Naked, held at chest level in front of her, the tip of the fearsome sword rose above her head.

"Shut up, priest!" she barked. "Your kind is only good for _burying_ the dead, so wait your turn!—Sakaki. You've gravely dishonored the house of Takino! What have you got to say to that?"

The tall woman so addressed appeared confused—but hardly frightened.

Looking at her, Tonza knew that his premonition was being fulfilled. Not one, but _four_ persons of uncanny strength had somehow gathered here today, like great rocks smashing together in the sea, and they surrounded him as the points of a square.

Although he was not afraid for his own life, he nonetheless mouthed a rapid prayer—where such power was combined with any amount of anger, only misfortune could result.

The tall woman, apparently Sakaki, turned and began to walk towards them. Her ward or daughter followed cautiously, hiding behind her. The loud samurai and her retinue also advanced. The stage was empty otherwise, and the air was still. The birds continued to sing in the trees bellow. The two parties met nearly in front of Tonza, Ayumu and Kagura, and all stood very close together.

Kagura watched the woman named Sakaki. Her expression was unreadable. She must have noticed, though, as Tonza did, that the weapon underneath Sakaki's cloak was only a wooden practice sword.

Then astonishing all of them, Sakaki bowed. "I know of no wrong I did to the house of Takino," she said. "If I committed wrong unknowingly—please pardon my actions."

The point of the loud samurai's sword was fixed on her opponent, who made not the slightest move to defend herself.

"Dog, don't think you'll crawl out of it that easily!"

"Dogs don't crawl, ma'am," muttered one of her retainers.

"Shut up!—Sakaki, even to one such as _you_ a samurai is bound by duty, and it's my duty to tell you whom you face! I am Tomonosuke, the Wildcat of Kyoto, scion of the House of Takino, and no words of apology will ever right that unforgivable wrong that you—wronged us with! So draw your steel and let's have it out like men!"

The wind lifted Sakaki's hair. She stood with her arms straight at her sides.

"Oh, Sakaki-sensei…" muttered the girl. "Be careful…Lady Takino is a friend of Koyomi's! She must be here to take revenge. And that sword…"

Sakaki's eyes had met Tomonosuke's.

Kagura's eyes watched Sakaki. She, at least, understood that the battle had already begun.

Ayumu looked thoughtful, her eyes moving from Tomonosuke to Sakaki.

Even Tomonosuke's retainers, all armed, capable-looking men, had drawn back a little.

Tonza shut his eyes.

Tomonosuke screamed at the top of her lungs: "_Draw_!"

"It's over," said Sakaki.

"Wha—huh?"

In utter confusion, Tomonosuke let her sword waver. If Sakaki had been a devious sort, she might have struck then, but she remained absolutely still.

"It's over," she repeated. "I've won."

"The hell you have!" shouted Tomonosuke. "Is this how you win your fights, Sakaki, with nonsense like that?—Is _this_ the Kamineko style?"

Sakaki shook her head. "You'll never see the Kamineko style. But, I bow my head to you…your skill is great. That's why I won't fight you. I've seen enough to know that if we fought, you wouldn't be victorious. But your skill is such—and your _style_ is such—that if we fought, it would be a fight to the death. And I have no wish to kill you."

With that, Sakaki turned and began to walk away.

"Let's go, Chiyo-chan."

Tomonosuke was speechless, wheezing with rage.

A stern voice came from one side: "She spared your life. Y'all should be grateful!"—it was Ayumu, but Tomonosuke paid no attention to the stranger. Letting out an unearthly scream, that seemed to Tonza to shake the very foundations of the stage, she charged.

The White Wind, wielded with the force of the No-Thought style, was capable of shearing a man in half—skin, muscle, bone. It would have cut Sakaki from shoulder to waist. But instead, it collided with another weapon, with a smash of collision nearly as loud as Tomonosuke's scream.

Sakaki turned her head.

A katana, drawn with the speed of a crane taking flight, had cut across the path of the White Wind. Kagura's left hand gripped it. In her right she held her short sword, pointed at Tomonosuke's head.

"That's a dirty trick!" she said loudly. "What kind of samurai attacks someone's back?"

Tomonosuke seemed genuinely stung by the accusation of cowardice.

"B-but _she's_ a coward!—Didn't you see, she just walked away from me! A samurai who's thrown away their honor like that doesn't deserve to live!"

"Doesn't matter," said Kagura. "I oughta challenge you myself for a display like that."

Tomonosuke spit. "Fine! Then I'll take out the saplings before I go for the tree—or something!"

"You talk big," said Kagura, "but I can see you're just a big, loud—_idiot_!"

"Well, you too! And don't think I'm afraid of some country hick like you."

"Don't," said Sakaki. "You won't win that fight either."

Her head was still turned slightly. Her eyes met Kagura's. The two women looked at each other. The wind moved past them.

Kagura withdrew both her swords, and sheathed them.

"You fight with two weapons," said Sakaki.

Kagura nodded.

"That's…impressive."

"Thank you."

"Perhaps…" Sakaki hesitated. She looked forward, and her hair blew out in between them. "…we'll meet again."

Chiyo followed her as she walked away, casting apprehensive glances back at them. She seemed like an intelligent, well-bred girl, but she was clearly out of her element surrounded by so many strong fighters.

Kagura was startled by Ayumu's voice: "Remember what I told ya, Kagura-dono."

She didn't answer.

"Hey!" screeched Tomonosuke. "Hey!"

But she didn't follow Sakaki. Then a thought came to her.

"Hey, ronin! So you think you're pretty strong, huh! You're one of those guys who just wanders around, testing your strength!—Fine, don't say anything, don't stop; I can see I'm right. Well, if that's the case, I bet you'll be at that fighting tournament the Lord Magistrate's put together!—You will be, won't you! Well guess what? I'm gonna be there too! And I'll be seeing you in the finals—_Sakaki-san_!"

Sakaki never looked back.

And unknown to all of those who stood on the Stage of Kiyomizu at that meeting, not far off—within a few moments' walk—at the shrine of Hachiman, the god of war, was the head of the Kurosawa school and her retinue. Kaori Sakamoto kneeled, offering her prayers for the safety of the tournament combatants. But throughout the ritual, she couldn't deny a mysterious warm feeling in her chest—a warm, excited feeling—as if a dear person were very near to her, doing the very thing that made them so dear.

She wondered, but attributed this to the power of the gods, which hung so richly over the grounds of great Kiyomizudera.


	7. Kaorin vs Baiken

AN: _"Y'all are reading, this I know / because my stats page tells me so!"_

_ I think it's time this story had a few more reviews, don't you? _:-)

_Anyway, according to legend, for the Negima _budokai,_ Ken Akamatsu rolled a bunch of dice to decide the matchups while his staff looked on in disbelief. I, um, just did it the old-fashioned way (i.e. coldblooded artifice)._

_(There only ended up being six "name" characters in the tournament, so I pulled two semihistorical figures from Yoshikawa's aforementioned novel to fill the roster. Who wants to bet they won't make it past the first round? _:-) _or maybe they will…)_

* * *

7. Quarterfinals: Kaorin vs. Baiken 

The sun dawned brilliant on the first day of Lord Magistrate Tanizaki's _Daibudokai_—"big fighting tournament." Kyoto's citizens were out in force. Although in high circles, Lord Tanizaki was criticized for her womanly excess and flippancy, the common people were quite fond of her largesse. The yearly celebrations at shrines were furnished with drums of sake courtesy of the Lord Magistrate; she herself took part in the Gion festival parades, assuming various disguises. Although the fighting tournament was meant for the participation of ronin and samurai, it served a purpose for others as well, entertaining them and providing an opportunity—like a festival—to come together and forget about daily cares.

The day before, the preliminaries had been fought in a dusty square in the artisan's district. The proceedings had taken from sunrise to sunset as groups of twenty men or more went at it, free-for-all, without rules or honor. It was a vicious, dirty business, and scores of ronin received serious injuries, some dying—but such were the matches that it became immediately obvious, in each group, which men were of skill. It sometimes happened that a promising fighter was brought down by a chance blow in the chaos, but more often a single man was able to fight off all the rabble in his group. Loud cheers greeted these exploits. At the end of the day, when the dust had cleared, eight victors presented themselves before the Lord Magistrate.

First was Shishido Baiken, a master who had traveled in from the provinces at word of the tournament. He was an uncouth, rumored to have been a bandit in his younger days, but now he was a feared and respected teacher of the sword, as well as new weapon—that he claimed, in fact, to have invented himself—called the _kusarigama_. This was a length of chain connecting a sickle, on one end, to an iron ball on the other, wielded so that it entangled an opponent's sword. In the preliminaries, Shishido had hung back so that he seemed a spectator; then when only several combatants remained, he moved in quickly and dispatched several with his sickle, trapped the sword of his final opponent and disarmed him.

Next was a ronin who had caused much excitement, known only by the name of Sakaki. She had hardly seemed to draw her sword—which was at any rate only a practice weapon—but all at once, as if blown by a powerful wind, more than five men at a time fell to the ground. Only one man managed to cross swords with her, and that only once; she struck his metal weapon at such an angle that it shattered. The crowd, on learning her name, had begun to chant it; seeming embarrassed, she left the arena quickly.

Another unknown ronin captured the next round. Fighting with two swords, a feat that required both incredible strength and presence of mind, she swept through the ranks of her opponents like a scythe mowing wheat, and the heavy bodies of men fell lightly. Several of them would not stand up again.

Kaori Sakamoto had faced some difficulty. Because of her fame, the other men in her round had turned on her as one, simply out of the desire to say they had defeated "that woman." They came at her in waves, but with the "unmovable sword" of the Kurosawa style she beat them back again and again, and one by one they fell. Finally in their desperation they began to turn on each other, and soon only Kaori was left standing.

A warrior monk of the Hozoin temple, Inshun, wielded a lance to victory in the next round. Then the new head of the Mizuhara school, Masaki Oyama, fought his way through one of the longest, most grueling rounds. Then came a strange spectacle.

Among the hardened, muscle-bound swordsman stood a pretty young woman wearing white robes, holding a short staff. Mistaking her for some sort of referee, the fighters avoided her at first. Only when a lance, wielded by one of then, accidentally seemed as if it would clip off her head, and in an instant she had leapt to the other side of the arena using one man's head as a stepping-stone, did they begin to realize the opponent they faced.

The fight was over within minutes. If the spectators had been pressed to describe what they had seen, they could only have said that the girl performed some sort of dance, and all the others fell down.

Finally came the infamous round that produced nine casualties. Disgusted at having to fight ronin and low-born brawlers, the scion of the House of Takino flailed about her with her _nodachi_, cutting them down without mercy. No rules had been specified, but some were still taken aback at this spectacle. The No-Thought style, as far is it could be gauged, contained no techniques for disarming or subduing opponents—every fight with a naked sword was a fight to the death. After the nine deaths, eight survivors were unanimous in surrendering to Tomonosuke.

The numerous wounded were carted off for treatment at several nearby temples; the victors were given the time and location of the first round of the tournament proper.

* * *

The fighting was to take place on the far bank of the Oi river. The foremost carpentry guild in the city, employed by the emperor himself, had constructed row on row of tiered wooden seats, so that even those in the backmost row could get a good view of the proceedings. The seats stood in three sections around the arena. 

There was no partition between the fighting ground and the bright cobalt waters of the Oi, and a section of the ground was muddy, to give tactically-minded fighters the chance to work with their surroundings. The rest of the ground was flat and covered by short dead grass.

On one side was a station, manned by the Lord Magistrate's personal physician, with fresh linen bandages, clean water and small grains of opium to dull pain. On the other side, under a garish red sunshade, lounged the Lord Magistrate herself.

Two bodyguards armed with nagitana, and a third with a rifle, stood ready to protect Yukari should the combatants draw too near. Against their alert postures, she was stretched back in a chair made of rattan wood, dressed in her most fanciful kimono—red, covered with golden clouds and soaring gold dragons, a Chinese import. She held a fan in each hand and alternately cooled herself with one, then the other. The temperature had lifted slightly since the past week, even as winter drew nearer, but it was more out of boredom that she did so—she seemed impatient for the match to begin. Truth be told, it was whispered in some circles that, while Yukari had conceived her plan for the reasons she told Kurosawa, she also frankly enjoyed the spectacle of violence.

She turned and muttered something to one retainer; he answered stiffly.

The first challengers were preparing outside the low wall of the fighting ground. The one called Shishido Baiken, a man of monstrous size, sat with his back straight and his hands on his knees, completely motionless, breathing in and out. His breath rasped like grass that swayed in a summer breeze. His eyes were flat like stones. Every so often his body shook slightly, responding to some invisible signal.

Across the ground Kaori Sakamoto sipped tea brought to her by her attendants. While Baiken went bare-chested, wearing a torso-wrapping and a pair of leather leggings, Kaori was dressed in a white kimono with an inlaid pattern of cranes. Her posture on her camp stool was faultless. She shut her eyes as she sipped, then handed the empty cup to Chihiro.

"My thanks."

"Master…" said Chihiro.

Kaori smiled at her. "Yes?"

"Forgive me. But it's so dangerous. Look at that man!—He's an outlaw! I know your skill in unsurpassable, master, but accidents…"

"Chihiro, you shouldn't be concerned. After seeing so many strong fighters yesterday, I could hardly shame myself by withdrawing, now could I?"

With that Kaori stood. The head of the Kurosawa school was a small, elegantly slim young woman on whom the white kimono hung like the bark of an elm. Her hair was brushed and held in place with a pin, and while she would hardly have made up her face for a bout, its natural beauty shone through in every line.

Yesterday. Kaori had hardly imagined there could be so many fighters of superlative ability in Kyoto. And there had been one woman in particular who had caught her eye—but that fight had been over so quickly she could scarcely judge it. Still, the memory of that woman…the sweep of her tied-back hair as she swung her sword…

Now was hardly the time to be thinking of it, but she wanted to get a better look at that woman when time permitted.

Baiken had taken the field. He stood there, mercilessly stretching his arms as if he wanted to touch heaven.

Thick black hair covered his face. Behind, it was so thick that even tying it back had made little difference.

He grunted. "Eh—what's this? I'd heard Kaori-dono was a strong woman. Are you her little sister, come to apologize for her cowardice in forfeiting?"

Kaori didn't answer. She seemed wholly unconcerned with Baiken, as if she did not even recognize her opponent.

Her eyes squinted. It was past midday, and the sun was in the west, in front of her—it favored Baiken, and would continue to favor whoever entered from his side. The air was calm. The river was at low tide. The crowd had grown relatively quiet, leaning forward to get a good look at the combatants. All of this Kaori took in while Baiken taunted her.

Then he turned, shouting: "_Oi_, Taro! Throw it!"

A large piece of metal whirled through the air. The crowd gasped as Baiken caught it in one hand, keeping from injury even though it was an implement designed to kill in any number of ways.

Baiken held the _kusarigama_ in both hands and took a stance. The sickle was held in front of him, lowered; he swung the ball behind his head. The droning sound filled the air. His face was hard and the muscles of his stomach were tight.

Kaori walked carelessly to the right, her sword sheathed. She might have been taking the air in her garden.

The Lord Magistrate's herald, a short man with a loud, strident voice, stepped forward to reiterate the tournament rules:

"Challenger Sakamoto-sama! Challenger Shishido-sama! A single match will now be fought! If there is no conclusion, a second match will then be fought. The purpose of the match is to score a technical victory; however I must state that if you should kill your opponent, you will not be charged with murder. Either of you may surrender at any time. As long as you two challengers, and you alone, fight, you cannot be penalized for the use of unorthodox tactics—but I suggest you weigh your honor, which is eternal, against ephemeral victory. May the gods favor who they will." He raised a paper fan and flourished it. "Now begin!"

Neither of the combatants seemed to take notice of this signal. For them, the battle had begun some time ago—or even before they had stepped onto the ground.

* * *

The crowd had surged forward when Kaori and Baiken appeared, and many, unsatisfied even with the tiered seats, had gotten to their feet—and so those seated behind them were forced to stand as well, and so on. In the seats facing the river, five rows back of the arena, a small girl strained frantically to see around the tall man in front of her. 

"Excuse me…oh, please excuse me…!"

"Shishi-dono! Make dogmeat out of that little girl!" the man screamed.

Next to him, as if spurred to outdo him, a woman countered: "Miss Kaori, fight!"

Giving up, the girl fell back on her seat. She sighed.

The world was of full big people. They didn't look where they were going.

All at once the crowd cheered, and as she again tried to peer around the man, she felt a hand touch her shoulder. She looked up to see the kind face of a servant-girl.

"Hey, there. My name is Aki. The master saw your predicament and invites you to sit with us, in the box. Isn't that nice?"

Set above even the highest row of seats was a canvas box where some honored guest, presumably a samurai of high rank, was seated.

The girl bowed. "Oh, that's very kind of you, ma'am, but I couldn't possibly—"

"Oh, don't stand on ceremony! The master herself was embarrassed to be put up there. Now come, come!"

Smiling, and booking no further protest, Aki took Chiyo by the hand and led her out of the press of the crowd—the spectators, marking the three-circle insignia of the Kurosawa school on her kimono, gave her space—and up the steps. They stood in the fresh cool air, against a clear sky.

Looking back, Chiyo caught her breath. Under the sun, the colors of the arena were as sharp as a painting, and the distant figures of the combatants like tiny dolls. She reflected that, to the gods, all human beings must look so.

From the box came the voice of an older woman:

"My, what a bright-looking girl! You must be a samurai's daughter. Won't you join us?"

Wearing a dignified kimono of a dark blue, Minamo Kurosawa sat with her former pupil's attendants.

Chiyo bowed.

"Why, you must be Kurosawa-sensei, Kairo-san's former teacher. This is truly an honor, ma'am!"

But the tone of her voice was more polite than overawed. As little as she cared for social distinction, Kurosawa was somewhat taken aback. Why was the girl so familiar? Her behavior was either errant rudeness from a person of low birth, or the utmost respect from a person of extremely high birth. Perhaps she was, after all, the daughter of some great lord; but in any case it was no business of Kurosawa's. Her smile returned.

"And I am honored by the company of such a well-spoken young lady. Again, won't you join us?"

"Yes, I suppose I can get a very good view from up here! Kurosawa-sensei, aren't you worried for Kaori-san?" said Chiyo as plopped into her seat.

Again, Kurosawa almost blushed at the girl's familiarity. It was strange, but at the same time rather charming.

Aki sat down on the other side of Chiyo. "I should hardly say so! Miss Kaori will dispose of that ruffian with little effort."

Kurosawa nodded. "I have the utmost faith in that girl. I taught her everything I have to teach—every exoteric secret, and all but the fourth esoteric secret, of the Kurosawa style. Most students never master the third esoteric secret, the Iron-Silk breathing method. And even Kaori proved unable to master the fourth, the Killing-Stroke Eye…"

Kurosawa shook her head, realizing such talk would only bore her new guest. However, Chiyo seemed intrigued, her big eyes shining.

"Kurosawa-sensei, you really are as strong as they say! I feel truly honored to have met you."

"Now, now!" For the first time in many years—at the least the first time in which her friend, Yukari, had not been involved—Kurosawa was genuinely embarrassed. She colored, and reached one hand behind her head. "How could you tell a thing like that just from sitting next to me?"

"It's in the way you speak, Kurosawa-sensei," said Chiyo solemnly. "If I were to learn swordsmanship, perhaps some day I, too, could speak like that…" Then very suddenly, as if springing a question she had wished to ask for years—although they had only met that moment—she went on: "Please tell me, is it true what they say, that good swordsmanship is the same as good character?"

Kurosawa shook her head. "I'm afraid it isn't, young miss. There have been many great swordsmen of terrible character. Though I do find that oftentimes, flaws of character do manifest as flaws of style…so perhaps it is true that a swordsman of bad character will inevitably lose to a swordsman of equal skill, who is of strong and upright character…"

"Sensei!" said another of Kaori's attendants—a girl who wore her hair in two braids—pulling on Kurosawa's sleeve. "Look, look, it's starting!"

* * *

After walking back and forth in front of Baiken for several minutes, Kaori returned to the edge of the arena. 

Cries of dismay came from the stands. Lord Tanizaki, sitting up in her chair, called out: "Hey, what! Don't tell me it's over!"

"I knew it!" called Baiken's attendant Taro, from the sidelines. "She didn't have the guts after all."

Kaori was unmoved by these imprecations; she didn't seem to hear them. Walking up to the canvas wall, she carefully removed the short sword—her favored weapon—from her side and handed it across to her bewildered second.

"Chihiro-san. Would you take care of this for me? I think that this particular weapon is too heavy for this fight."

"Master…" whispered Chihiro.

Without doing anything further, Kaori began to walk unhurriedly back.

"God damn you! Making fun of me?" said Baiken. "I don't know what you think you're up to, but…"

"Shishido-san," said Kaori.

She held her body slightly at an angle, her eyes half-lidded to keep out the sun.

"Hnn?"

"Please come at me with all your power."

"Hmph."

The iron ball hummed like a cloud of locusts over Baiken's head.

Kaori removed a small fan from the breast of her kimono. At this final show of insolence, Baiken grunted and let the chain fly from his hand.

The ball hurtled across the fifteen paces dividing them, straight at Kaori's head. The crowd was fixed in an agony of disbelief. In a moment the head of the Kurosawa school, defenseless, would be brutally killed—it defied all sense.

The fan slid open with a slight flick of Kaori's wrist. The ball smashed against it and flew away, and it was all Baiken could do to recover it, pulling it back into its orbit. Kaori cut the air in front of her with the iron fan.

"Shishido-san. I regret to say that despite what you might have hoped, you will not be the champion of this tournament. Please accept my apologies that I must be the instrument of your defeat."

* * *

"A _tessen_!" said Chiyo, leaning out of her seat. "Incredible!"

* * *

Kurosawa could hardly keep from smiling a little. "The Kurosawa style is a state of body," she said. "One does not need a sword to practice it." 

Howling with rage, Baiken let the ball of his _kusarigama_ fly again and again, and each time Kaori repelled it with a smart stroke of her _tessen_—and each time she moved closer, her light feet flying over the ground. Baiken's precious trick—to entrap his opponent's sword and pull it away from them—was useless, but he still wielded two deadly weapons. As Kaori approached his fingers tightened on the kama, waiting for the opportunity to sink it into her neck.

To what can the Kurosawa style be compared? It was like a chaste maiden, brushing off the untoward advances of young suitors. Or again, it was like the son of a shrine keeper sweeping the grounds with a broom. Or again, it was like the sacred _kagura_ dance. Or again, it was like rice harvesters as they move and duck their heads in time to a song.

She moved with a grace that belied her speed. Before Baiken realized she was inside his guard, and in a natural extension of her spinning movement she struck. He managed to catch the blow on the drawn length of chain—a crack—they separated.

Kaori's _tessen_ was made of closely-linked iron bars that folded apart, just as those of a real fan. Before she had struck it collapsed into a single bar, and when she fell back it again sprang open.

Both combatants, and the crowd, were completely silent.

Then one eerie word began to drift through the air, as if from a supernatural source. Terrified spectators looked around; but it was only the Lord Magistrate herself, slowly and loudly chanting:

"Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill!"

* * *

In the box, Kurosawa covered her face. 

"Honestly, that woman…"

* * *

Kaori and Baiken had reversed positions, and the sun slanted over Kaori's short figure into Baiken's eyes. His face wrinkled, and he squinted. The chain whirled above his head. He stood his ground. 

Kaori looked over the edge of the _tessen_.

"Kill! Kill! Ki-i-i-ill!"

Kaori took one step forward. Baiken remained standing firm, the chain swinging over him like a storm cloud gathering above a mountain. Kaori continued to advance. Then when she was within ten paces, his arm extended longer than most would have judged it could and Baiken struck.

The air filled with strands of Kaori's black hair. Baiken pulled back the hand holding the kama and swung the ball at her head with enough force to split it open.

The kama had sheared off two inches of Kaori's hair as she flinched to the right. In the same motion, she brought up the _tessen_ and struck the ball, and it rebound and struck Baiken in the mouth.

To a man, the crowd was on its feet. The roar went up, drowning out the smaller, rather unpleasant sound that Baiken's jaw made as it cracked, and then the soft click of his teeth as he vomited them onto the ground. The physician and his attendants came running. Kaori stepped back.

The Lord Magistrate was on her feet, whooping incoherently.

"The winner is Sakomoto-sama!" announced the herald.

Folding her _tessen_, Kaori calmly walked back to the sidelines. Chihiro was waiting with a cup of water, which she accepted graciously.

* * *

AN: _I think Baiken got lucky; historically, and in the novel, he didn't escape with his life._

_Next up: Tomo vs. Oyama! _


	8. Tomo vs Oyama

AN: _I do know a bit of Japanese, but the poems below rely a bit on_ le_ dictionary, and as such are probably not too accurate. I was ashamed to show them to my professor… _:'-( _Not to mention that I'm sure they don't look much like the old-fashioned Japanese of the Edo period, anyway._

_That summary is becoming increasingly misleading, isn't it? For one thing the story takes itself a bit more seriously than it suggests, and also it makes out that Sakaki is the main character, whereas right now it's kind of an ensemble…and in chapters to come I think Kagura will take a much more central role.  
_

_Thanks, reviewers! By the way, I'm probably paranoid, but everybody who reviewed has gotten a reply—right? I just always have this sense that technology is messing with me, and I hate the thought of missed connections…_

* * *

8. Quarterfinals: Tomo vs. Oyama

In her study overlooking the garden, Koyomi Mizuhara was composing a poem. It was difficult to hold the brush using her left hand, but after several days she had learned to manage, and her new characters had a roughness—a freshness—that she liked. They seemed to represent the line drawn between her old life, dedicated to the sword, and the new life that was beginning to take shape.

Lowering her eyes from the brilliant garden to the parchment, she wrote:

_Ima watashi_

_Migiwa nami miru_

_Asa kara mo_

"Now I stand

By the shore and watch the waves

And I have been since morning."

Of course, she wasn't watching the waves; she couldn't even recall the last time she had been to the seaside. But somehow the image of the sea had come to her, where she sat in the still, dry air. With another two lines she completed the _tanka_:

_Tsuyoi nami wake_

_Kakou. Sa—hito mo._

"Even a strong wave

Breaks. Well—so does a person."

Footsteps intruded on Koyomi's silence. As she turned her head in irritation, a servant appeared in the doorway, breathless, and flung himself down.

"Master! We have word that the fight has begun."

Koyomi paused, the end of the brush still on the parchment, trailing the final stroke of her poem.

"If that news has made it here," she said, "the battle is probably already decided."

* * *

"Challenger Oyama-sama! Challenger Takino-sama! A single match will now be fought! If there is no conclusion, a second match will then be fought. The purpose of the match is to score a technical victory; however I must state that if you should kill your opponent…"

The herald was repeating his speech, but neither of the combatants seemed to care anything for it. They were glaring at each other with pure hatred, hands tight on their swords.

Oyama, strangely for a man, wore robes of pure white. The effect was somewhat like a priest, but it was clear to the more perceptive onlookers why he had chosen them—with the sunlight, it became impossible to look directly at him. His tall form burned in the air like a spirit. Strangely, though, although he might have manipulated matters to enter from the west, and have the sun at his back—it was unlikely Tomonosuke would have had the foresight to insist otherwise—Oyama had entered from the east, and was facing directly into the sun. So it happened that both combatants were squinting, even as their eyes burned.

The herald waved his fan. "Begin!"

Oyama began to taunt his opponent immediately. "I thought this tournament was for Kyoto's strongest fighters," he said, "not wildcat idiots. It's too bad Koyomi-sensei never got the chance to straighten you out for good while she was…able-bodied. She was far too indulgent with you, for reasons I never understood. But now I, Oyama Masaki of the Mizuhara School, will teach you the lesson you so richly deserve—that swordsmanship is not just a matter of striking idiot poses and screaming! Now, prepare to be educated!"

While Oyama gripped his sword with one hand, keeping the other on the scabbard to push the _habaki_ free with his thumb, Tomonosuke's unique method of her drawing her _nodachi_ involved pulling on it with both hands. In this unusual stance, she answered Oyama:

"Well, if it isn't Yomi's little servant-boy! What's the matter, did you get tired of writing love-poems to her and tearing them up as soon as you were finished? Forget it! Yomi would never like a weak loser like you. If you beg for mercy now, maybe I'll just cut off _one_ of your arms!"

Behind Tomonosuke, the Lord Magistrate seemed greatly entertained by these proceedings. Noting this, Oyama said:

"Well, are we going to talk all day, or fight?"

"I'm ready anytime you are!" Tomonosuke answered.

A smile crossed Oyama's face.

He had the broad, handsome face of an aristocrat.

He drew his sword. A moment later, Tomonosuke gave a small shriek and fell back, the White Wind still in its scabbard.

* * *

"Sensei!" said Chiyo. "Is he…surely he isn't allowed to do that!"

Kurosawa was frowning. "I don't like it either, but the man did say that 'unorthodox' tactics would be allowed. I suppose it's because they would have trouble drawing the line between what is and isn't—orthodox. Nonetheless…"

"That terrible man!" cried the girl with pigtails. "Not that I'm very fond of that—loud woman either, but…"

"I agree!" said Aki. "It's just _too_ cunning!"

"I see you like my _hankuro_," said Oyama. "I'm glad that Amaterasu, the sun, decided to grace us with her presence today. Of course—I had other plans, should she have sulked as she once so famously did. But I must admit a fondness for this particular gambit."

_Hankuro_, he said—half-black. Oyama, using a rare style developed in Hokkaido that involved holding the sword at a slight angle, faced Tomonosuke. Half his sword had been coated in the same pitch that geishas used to black their teeth. The other had been polished until it shone like a mirror, and it sent a spear of light into Tomonosuke's eyes.

Oyama walked forward rapidly.

"You live and fight like an animal, with no regard for your own humanity! You make me ill—just as you made Koyomi ill! I know you must have entered this competition in hopes of challenging that uncanny ronin who maimed Koyomi, but rest assured—I, Masaki Oyama, heir to the secrets of the Mizuhara style, shall defeat both you _and_ that woman—and vindicate Koyomi-sensei's name as the greatest sword teacher in this city!"

Releasing her sword, Tomonosuke leapt backwards. She doubled the distance between herself and Oyama, but her back was pinned to the wall, and he continued to advance at the same rapid but measured pace.

Tomonosuke's attendants, low-lifes with whom she had caroused nights in the pleasure quarters, drew back in terror at Oyama's approach—or perhaps they were more afraid that a swipe from Tomonosuke's sword would injure them as she defended herself. The Lord Magistrate's seat stood to Tomonosuke's left, and she and her guards had turned to watch with great interest.

Tomonosuke set her teeth. Reaching up, she removed the white headband holding back her hair.

"Nice try," she said, and tied it over her eyes.

The crowd was excited. There were few who strongly favored either Tomonosuke or Oyama, but the fight had taken a surprising turn, and the muttering rose from all sides.

Oyama paused, surprised. In that moment Tomonosuke tugged with both hands and the White Wind screamed free of its scabbard, and the grass rippled back around her feet. Three men standing in front of her would have fallen, killed instantly—their stomachs, arms, even swords cut through. Oyama, who had of course taken into account the White Wind's unusual range, stood just outside of it.

He began to circle. Tomonosuke stepped forward.

* * *

_Kaze doko ni_, wrote Koyomi.

_Daremo shiranai._

_Ore kangae_

"Where the wind blows to

No one knows.

But it's my thought…"

_Otosata kureru_

_Taisetsu omae._

"…that it's bringing news of you,

My precious one."

* * *

As she lunged, Tomonosuke gave a scream like nothing most in the crowd had ever heard. It caused the hair on the back of young girls' necks to stand on end. It rose and fell as she swung her sword, like the call of some giant angry bird, but Oyama was unmoved. He stepped quickly back to avoid her insane attack, and—now that she had blinded herself—no longer bothered to send the light in her eyes, adopting a more cautious stance.

Several times the tip of her sword cut very close to him. Because she seemed to move at random, he found it difficult to react, yet her enormous reach made it likewise difficult to move in and finish her. He could have made the attempt, but was cautious by training and preferred to risk nothing. She seemed to be able to get some sense of his position by listening to his footsteps, no matter how carefully he moved—the ground was hard and dry.

Now Tomonosuke held her sword at her waist, aimed backwards, so that it curved out behind her like a tail; now she held it above her head; now she let it all but drag along the ground. If there was some hidden cohesion in her movements, even Oyama's trained eyes couldn't detect it. But her blows themselves were never haphazard.

By circling so that his back faced the crowd, he was trying to push her into the mud, and the river. For a moment it seemed as if he would succeed—then she rushed forward swinging madly, and he had no choice but to fall back. It was like trying to herd a stubborn child. But she was losing ground. Every time she forced him back, he was careful to give an inch less than the time before, and he knew—and hoped that she, with her wildcat idiot enthusiasm, didn't know—that it was only a matter of time before the mud claimed her. And even now, one of her clogs plunged into it with a fatal sucking noise…

Tomonosuke stopped. Oyama charged, and, seeming to panic, she lurched back further, sinking both feet deep in the mud.

The crowd gave a moan of dismay. Tomonosuke's display of pigheaded bravery had endeared her to many, and now the fight was surely over.

The two swords met with a series of sharp high notes. Both her legs sunk ankle-deep in the mud, Tomonosuke couldn't swing the White Wind with her usual force—had she, it might have cut through Oyama's blade. Dark flecks of pitch flew off the _hankuro_. The two swords locked.

Tomonosuke was a woman of massive physical strength, the muscles plump in her arms and legs—but Oyama, taller and broader-shouldered, was no weakling himself. For a moment there was no give either way. The metal grated and more pitch rained down in between them.

Oyama was slowly pushing her back—he too was now mired, but not as deeply. Her feet sunk further into the mud; it slurped and gurgled happily and tugged at the hem of her robes. Now she was standing knee-deep in the open water.

Her teeth grit, she nonetheless gasped one word:

"_Cold_."

Oyama smiled. He could feel the strength rapidly ebbing out of her.

"Give up," he said.

Tomonosuke's tongue protruded from between her clenched lips.

"Don't wanna."

"I don't want to have to kill you. Somehow I feel that Koyomi-sensei…would be upset."

"Yeah—" grunted Tomo. "Same goes for you."

Oyama managed a brief laugh. "Listen to this nonsense! She talks as if she's going to win."

At almost the same instant, Tomo wheezed: "Well, I guess I'll just beat you now."

Either she had been deliberately checking her strength until that moment, or, from some pit deep in her soul, she had dredged up one last measure. With one heave she threw Oyama back, and the astonished young man unbalanced completely and fell, with a spectacular crash, in the mud and water. Above him the White Wind had reversed, and its blade now pointed earthward and stabbed down and buried itself.

Oyama had managed to roll the slightest distance to one side. As Tomonosuke struggled to free her sword, he leapt to his feet—water flew in all directions—and took one big, clumsy step backward.

Tomonosuke held her sword in one hand, reached up and tore the blindfold away from her eyes. She saw Oyama with both hands on his sword as he charged her, and brought up her own and stood to meet him.

* * *

_Ocha to kocha,_

wrote Koyomi.

_Hare hi yori ame_

_Naze donna?_

"Green tea and black tea.

Sunny days or rain

Why should I choose?"

_Futatsumo hoshii_

_Kochi, ore aida._

"I want you both

Right here, beside me."

* * *

Kurosawa watched with her hands curled together in her lap. Whenever she observed a bout—even now, after her retirement—she felt as if she were one of the combatants, or even both. She felt the moment when the fight was decided pass like the moment of death, and she knew there was a victor before she could clearly see who the victor was.

One moment Tomonosuke stood on the right, Oyama on the left; the next they had reversed positions. Oyama's bright white robes stood against the dark river water. He fell forward on his knees.

Tomonosuke was gasping. She slid the White Wind back into its sheath.

"Ha!" she said. "Ha."

Then she collapsed.

Both combatants were lying facedown in the water. Alarmed, in spite of her apparent wish for bloodshed, Lord Yukari gestured frantically for the doctor; then she dispatched her guards to help drag in the bodies. The crowd leaned forward.

Oyama's sword had begun to float out into deeper water.

Soon he and Tomonosuke lay side-by-side on the grass, the water pooling around them. The physician leaned over one, then the other.

"Well?" called Yukari. "_Well_?"

The physician whispered something to the herald.

The herald raised his fan. "Both challengers have fallen unconscious!"

Oyama had been cut in his side, but when the physician drew back his kimono to treat him, he uncovered an iron plate strapped underneath it. Tomonosuke's sword had sliced through the metal and into the flesh, but only by an inch—he quickly staunched the bleeding and wrapped Oyama's chest in bandages. He would survive, even walk, but strenuous activity in the near future was out of the question. So much as raising his left arm would cause the wound to start gushing.

Oyama's sword has struck Tomonosuke directly on the head. But had Koyomi been present, she surely would have made some joke about her rival's thick skull—somehow, probably as Oyama had felt Tomonosuke's blow, his own had lost force and the blade glanced off. It had cut the skin and even scored the bone, and the blood ran down Tomonosuke's face, but she was alive.

"A draw! A default!" the herald announced, spinning to face the various sections of the crowd. "Only a single semifinal match will be held! The winner of our next match will advance directly to the final round!"

"A draw?" muttered the Lord Magistrate. "Bo-ring…"

Nonetheless, the crowd was cheering. Some admired Oyama's cunning; others, considering Tomonosuke's handicap, considered her the victor. Although both fighters were disqualified from the tournament, and would not claim the prize, there was no doubt that the match would be discussed in the days to come, and have its effect on their reputations.

Even as Tomonosuke and Oyama were being treated on the field, in full view of the crowd, the participants in the next round had appeared behind the walls. On one side, the Hozoin lancer, Inshun, was engaged in wrapping the end of his spear in cloth. On the other, a tall woman had appeared, alone.

* * *

The servant again burst into Koyomi's study.

In the garden, a single sparrow took flight.

"Master! We have word that the fight is decided."

"And the decision?"

"A draw. Neither combatant is dead, but both are too badly injured to proceed."

"I see," said Koyomi. "Thank you."

There was a brief silence. Koyomi's face was expressionless.

Without turning her head, she added: "You may go."

When the servant had left, after weighing the brush in her hand for several minutes, she began to write again:

_Itama to shi,_

_Tsurai—tonikaku_

_Ima setsuna_

"Pain and death,

Heartbreak—in spite of them,

At this moment…"

_Watashi no kokoro_

_Anshin nakute._

"My heart becomes calm."

* * *

AN: _Man, if not for Oyama's dirty tactics, I think Tomo would have cut him in half. No fair!_

_After writing this, I read somewhere that geisha didn't black their teeth with any kind of pitch, but with some kind of acid that would probably wreck a sword. D'oh! This is one of those cases where partial cultural knowledge is sort of worse than none at all._

_Next up: Inshun vs. Sakaki! Also Kagura vs. Osaka. Two fights, one chapter!_

_In my head, and as reader's intuition probably guesses, Sakaki and Kagura are seeded. They can't go up against each other until the finals...assuming they both reach them, as there could always be an upset. For the next round, I'd give Sakaki 2:1 against Inshun—but Kagura and Osaka, that one's hard to call..._


	9. Sakaki vs Inshun, Kagura vs Osaka

AN: _This chapter brought to you courtesy of Nabeko, who taught me how to get around whatever kind of server crash is going on right now!_

_Also, why did I not watch Samurai Champloo until today? Could it be said that I did not truly live until today? (Fuu-chan is so-o-o-o cute! and she has a flying squirrel that protects her from being molested. Why can't I write this stuff?)_

* * *

9. Sakaki vs. Inshun, Kagura vs. Osaka 

Chiyo stood up.

"Ah—please excuse me, Kurosawa-sensei! I've very much enjoyed your company, but you see—my master is fighting in the next round! I have to go down and attend her, although I'm sure I won't be needed. But it would just be too sad if no one were there behind her! I must say, I'm very excited to see Sakaki-sensei in another formal bout—and this time I'll try not to be afraid for her…"

Her master…? A smile came to Kurosawa's lips. Would the mystery of this young girl's identity be solved? Then the name struck her.

"Sakaki," she said.

As Chiyo bowed and rushed off, she held out her hand.

"Wait!—Wait a moment. Sakaki…can you be referring to that mysterious ronin who defeated Koyomi Mizuhara in one blow, and who made such a fine showing at the preliminaries yesterday?"

Looking over her shoulder, with a pleased expression, Chiyo nodded.

"Uh-huh! Sakaki-sensei is my teacher. Well, she hasn't actually taught me anything about the Way of the Sword yet—not the external forms. But I feel she's taught me a great deal about the samurai's heart."

"Amazing," muttered Kurosawa. Questions plagued her—but it wouldn't do to delay Chiyo any longer. Below them, the bodies of Tomonosuke and Oyama had been removed—leaving faint blood stains on the grass—the herald was already returning to his post. "Well," she said softly. "I wish your master luck."

Chiyo bowed again. "Thank so you very much!"

Then she had vanished again into the press of the crowd, and her small, shrill voice could be heard, more and more distant: "Excuse me, oh, please, excuse me…!"

* * *

The crowd burst into a roar as Sakaki appeared. She greeted this display indifferently, her head lowered slightly between her shoulders, looking away toward the river. She wore a simple cotton jacket over a rough kimono, both a dark brown. At her side was the wooden sword she had carved days ago from a tree branch, that had disabled the arm of the Mizuhara school. 

"Sa-ka-ki! Sa-ka-ki!"

This enthusiasm was, in a sense, superficial. The woman ronin presented a striking figure, and stirred up excitement much in the same way that a great official or an impressive religious ceremony might. When it came to the matter of the combat, though, there were very few who expected Sakaki to be victorious, or for that matter wished it.

Her opponent Inshun was the heir to the Hozoin lineage of polearm-fighting, a lancer without peer. His fame was principally local only because he resided at the Hozoin temple as a priest, rather than wandering the country as a fighter, trying to prove himself. He rarely appeared in public, but when he did his victory was the inevitable result. What was more, he was (by all accounts) a man of deep religious devotion and flawless character, whose strength, as it were, proceeded from the Buddha himself—who then could wish his downfall? It was unknown why he had even agreed to participate in the tournament; possibly he agreed with its civic aims. Or possibly he was like some legendary beast that leaves its cave for a moment, reminding the world of its existence, so that fear of it will not die out. It was a sure fact that Inshun would be victorious; therefore, why not cheer for Sakaki?

The cheering intensified with an odd little spectacle—on Sakaki's side of the arena, a young girl suddenly came into view, dragging something behind her. Even Sakaki was surprised by her appearance. With all the strength in her tiny arms, Chiyo heaved Sakaki's standard into the air.

It was extremely fortunate that Oyama was lying in a tent behind the arena, still unconscious. Otherwise, he might have fallen unconscious again in a fit of horror over what had become of the standard of the House of Mizuhara, taken by Sakaki after her duel with Koyomi. As a ronin, Sakaki could no longer use the crest of her house or master, and so either she or Chiyo had created this new device: the two intertwining white snakes of the House of Mizuhara had been altered, slightly, so that from a distance they resembled the face of a cat.

It was rather strange that a ronin should insist on having a standard at all, suggesting that she did not consider herself disgraced. Perhaps her master had been killed in battle.

Inshun was attended by two fellow-priests, solemn, bald-headed men. In contrast to Tomonosuke's crew, who had lounged behind the wall hurling insults at Oyama, they and Inshun were kneeling in silent prayer or meditation. Then Inshun stood, took his lance in one hand and nodded once to each of them. Not a word was exchanged.

Inshun was slightly taller than Sakaki. He had exchanged his clerical robes for a bright red tunic, and the haft of his lance was also red. His face was young—many in the crowd, knowing him only by reputation, were surprised to find him so young—and exceedingly handsome, and his expression serene. Although the rules of the tournament allowed bladed weapons, indeed any kind of weapon excepting firearms, he had chosen to wrap the end of his lance to spare his opponents injury.  
He stood behind the wall and watched Sakaki. His eyes were impossible to read.

Across the arena, Chiyo smiled at Sakaki. Sakaki returned the smile. Then she raised one leg and stepped over the wall, with a kind of casual attention, not at all as if she were walking into a duel.

Chiyo was about to speak, but bit off her warning—she had already seen her teacher defeat many strong opponents. Still, each time, seeing Sakaki walking toward a figure who exuded pure terror, it was difficult to believe that she would really escape with her life.

"I'll be back soon," said Sakaki, "and…thank you."

"Good luck, sensei," whispered Chiyo.

By the time Sakaki had made her way to her position, Inshun was already standing opposite her. His posture was like a statue's, the tip of his lance buried in the ground.

She bowed to him. Hers was Kaorin's and Oyama's position—facing the sun.

"Challenger Sakaki-sama! Challenger Inshun-sama! A single match will now be fought!"

As the herald made his speech, Sakaki and Inshun watched each other. There was no hint of tension in either of their bodies. But this total relaxation was, for the onlookers, as alarming to watch as a man exerting himself to the peak of his abilities.

When the herald waved his fan, nothing happened. Not a blade of grass stirred.

Inshun's attendants sat looking stonily forward. Chiyo was leaning over the wall, her fingers pressed to her mouth.  
In the moment that passed, a crow might have flown all the way across the arena. Or, two men like Tomonosuke and Oyama might have crossed swords ten times. One might have expected the Lord Magistrate to begin complaining of boredom, but rather, she sat up in her chair, the muscles tight in her neck, as if she were held in place by an invisible force.  
And still nothing happened.

Then there was a sound. From the stands on the right it escaped, furtive—the high, long squeal of a woman.

There, sitting among the crowd, Chihiro glanced to her right, whispered:

"Kaorin, did you hear—that?"

The Lady Kaori had vanished.

* * *

Inshun made an apologetic noise, as if his long silence had been rudeness toward a guest. His right arm moved slightly. 

"Forgive this one," he said. "I confess I was lost in my reflection."

Sakaki nodded.

Then he did something that caused the Lord Magistrate, and many in the crowd, to gape in abject disbelief—holding his lance in front of him, he went down on his knees and bowed in front of Sakaki.

"Forgive me," he repeated. "She-avatar of Hachiman. I see that you are the veteran of one hundred battles. Beside you, this one is merely a novice. Although I am told I possess some skill, I have led a cloistered life, and know nothing of the true ways of combat. My only desire is to approach nearer to the Buddha Dharma through the practice of martial arts. To this end, I engage other human beings in combat. Until today I have known only victory. But it is my belief that a defeat would be as gainful in attaining my aim.

"Therefore, although I am by no means certain of my victory, I propose that we fight. Let us exchange a single blow—and in that, our fates shall be decided."

Sakaki nodded.

"Un."

Inshun climbed back to his feet. The lance of the Hozoin, longer than a human being was tall, shifted in his hands like a stalk of grass.

Sakaki loosed her sword from its bindings. She raised it in front of her, each movement slow and precise, as if only rehearsing an action she would later make instantly.

The lance whirled around Inshun as easily as Baiken had spun his length of chain, and the air was one red blur. When it stopped, its bound tip pointed at Sakaki's heart. It covered half the distance between them.

Another silence followed.

The day was still; there was no wind. The sun had moved slightly lower in the sky than when Kaori had first faced Baiken. Somewhere, a hawk cried.

Inshun held himself with such practiced grace that his protestations of naiveté were difficult to believe. Sakaki, for her part, was so still that it was difficult to see her as a living being; she was more like a static figure in a painting. Then she spoke.  
"For what I am about to do," she said, "holy man, forgive me."

* * *

Huddled behind the tower of seats, where it was cool and dark, was a small figure hardly recognizable as Kaori Sakamoto. The lady who was an unassailable tower of traditional, Japanese elegance was trembling like a schoolgirl. Her breath came in gasps. But she did not appear distressed—rather, she was smiling. 

_  
Such strength. Incredible! For the opportunity to witness such a moment—O gods, I thank you!_

In her hands was a scrap of bandage, loaned her from the medical tent nearby where Baiken, Tomonosuke and Oyama were recovering—she'd claimed a slight injury of her own. In fact, she had one, the smallest of cuts sustained when Baiken's sickle had grazed her cheek, slicing away her hair. Now she reached up one finger, and pressed on the wound until she felt a prick. When she removed the finger, a red jewel glistened there.

When she closed her eyes, she could still see that tall figure standing there, triumphant over the world, and her maiden's heart—never before moved with love—beat fast.

She began to write on the parchment.

_Ipponsugi  
Takai to naoki  
Hara hittori_

"Solitary cryptomeria tree  
So tall and straight  
Alone in the field

_Kimi nagai eda  
Mamote kudasai._

Please shelter me  
Under your long branches."

* * *

Lightning struck the arena—or so it seemed. In the space between two moments, Sakaki and Inshun leapt together. Not even Kurosawa could mark what happened.

A long red object spun through the air. More than one onlooker was convinced it was Sakaki's arm, stained with blood. But when it crashed down at the Lord Magistrate's feet, causing her and her guards—who, in spite of their training, had been unnerved by the mere presence of these combatants—to flinch back, all saw that it was fully half of Inshun's lance, the cloth still tied to its blade.

Sakaki stood upright. She flicked her sword in the air to remove drops of blood, then slid it back through the sash of her kimono.  
Inshun lay stretched full-length at her feet. His limbs splayed out, eyes shut—it seemed impossible he had been armed a moment before.

The physician knelt like a referee.

"How is it?" whispered the herald.

"The blood's from a scrape," said the old physician, "not a fracture—probably from where his own weapon hit him. He'll live."  
Standing, the herald struck the air with his fan: "The winner is Sakaki-sama!"

The cheer seemed to build for a moment, like a wave, before it erupted on all sides.

"Sa-ki-ki! Sa-ka-ki! Sa-ka-ki!"

Chiyo was waving the standard as wildly as her meager strength would allow.

After hearing the physician's judgement, Sakaki began to walk away. She held herself as before, with ease, her hair floating out behind her.

* * *

"Y'know, it's kind of a shame that Takino woman got knocked out," said Kagura. "I was looking forward to fighting that loudmouth…her style kind of reminds me of my own."

Ayumu Kasuga stood beside her. "The Buddha must love that woman a lot," she said. "He saved her twelve times over. If she'd of fought that lady who _just_ fought, she'd be shakin' hands with her ancestors pretty soon. Same if she'd crossed swords with you, Kagura-dono."

They stood in the narrow, dim space between two towers of seats. Previously Oyama had entered the arena through one of these channels, Tomonosuke through the other; Kagura and Ayumu had agreed to enter together. Wood dust floated around them.

Kagura's face brightened. "Really? You think so?"

Ayumu nodded.

But then Kagura, eyeing her, looked suspicious. "So what if I went up against that woman who just fought?"

Ayumu didn't answer. "They're really going crazy out there," she said. "I wonder what happened?"

"You know what happened," said Kagura, "don't you. That woman…she beat that lancer. Didn't she?"

"I reckon so."

"Hnn." Kagura bit her knuckle. "She's good. Y'know, I should've been watching that fight—I bet it's the only chance I'll get to see her before I meet her in the finals. After I take care of that Sakamoto, I mean—and you." She grinned. "You ready?"

"Anytime you are, Kagura-dono."

Ayumu seemed grave. It puzzled Kagura, who still recalled their first meeting in the rain, the carefree way the priest had laughed. But then again, she herself was rarely in the mood to laugh before a fight.

"I'm lookin' forward to seeing this 'Empty Body' staff thing of yours," she said. "But don't you dare go easy on me!"

Ayumu turned to face her, her large eyes glowing with the motes of dust in between them.

"Don't worry. I won't."

* * *

The crowd began to mutter on seeing the two combatants appear behind the wall together, neither with any attendants. The one, a sunburned, muscular girl wearing a cheap light blue kimono, looked like a peasant; the other a vagrant priest. While the peasant girl at least carried two swords of dubious quality on her sash, the priest held only a staff—and not the long staff, reinforced with iron rings, that a trained martial artist wielded, but a pilgrim's stick.

"Who're these guys?" muttered Yukari to her attendant. "Did they sneak in?"

They stood opposite one and other in the center of the field, on the dead grass already trampled by previous combatants; Kagura taller, broader, more fearsome in every way than her opponent. The match seemed like a farce after the previous confrontation between two warriors of ability, and some even suspected that Lord Yukari, in her winsomeness, had staged it.

Only one spectator, high up in the stands, was very struck by either of the figures.

Chiyo climbed back into the box, beaming. "Miss Kurosawa—what's the matter?"

Kurosawa was staring down at the field, her face as pale as the gray streaks in her hair.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," said Chiyo.

* * *

On the field, Kagura placed one hand on the hilt of her short sword, the other on her katana. Three fingers rested on the short sword, her thumb and forefinger beneath the guard of the katana, ready to push it free. Although it was a technique that must have taken some practice, it seemed that she could draw both together.

"—but I suggest you weigh your honor," said the herald, "which is eternal, against ephemeral victory. May the gods favor who they will. Begin!"

No sooner had he finished speaking than Kagura's swords flashed in the air. She held the katana extended, the short sword at her side. The mere spectacle of an opponent able to wield two swords, and draw them with such speed, was enough to unnerve many. Behind the point of the katana, shining in the air, she grinned.

"Come on!"

Ayumu had never moved. She held her staff loosely, looking dazed by the sudden expanse around her. For a moment Kagura wondered if, after all…somehow, she hadn't been so surprised to learn that Ayumu considered herself a fighter; she was so strange that anything might be possible. But perhaps she was merely confused, or joking, and now she would be humiliated—or worse—in front of all these people…

Kagura's sword wavered. In that moment Ayumu's voice caught her up sharply.

"Huh! I must've been wrong, then. I thought I was facin' the Two-Sword Terror who roamed the highroad between Kyoto and Edo, defeating as many as twenty wandering swordsman…but surely this rank novice couldn't be her!"

Although this speech was delivered, not with Oyama's swagger, with Ayumu's usual lucid innocence, Kagura sputtered.  
"W-what's that—!"

Sadly, Ayumu shook her head. "Kagura-dono, what're ya doing? You're lookin' straight ahead! You got no focus! Why don't you try taking a look around you, instead?"

Kagura studied her. She didn't seem about to make a move; she hadn't even taken a stance. She obeyed her and glanced around the arena, at the flat scenery and the beady eyes of the onlookers. What! It wasn't as if she were going to be attacked from behind.

"What d'you see?"

"I see some people, some grass, some sky," said Kagura. "So what?"

"People, huh?" said Ayumu. "That's funny. All I see are a bunch of demons."

"Eh?"

"Hmm…" Glancing around herself, Ayumu nodded. "Nothin' but demons. Demons who came to see people get their heads chopped off. In fact, sometimes I think this whole country is full of nothing but demons. Maybe it's hell!"

Kagura realized that the point of her sword was trembling. Furious, she tried to draw all her energy into her sword arm.

"What're you talking about! Is this your strategy? I thought I was going to see your staff technique! If I wanted a sermon, I'd of just asked…"

"I'm going to beat some sense into you, Kagura-dono," said Ayumu, "whether I have to use my words or ol' Kobo Daishi here."—with that, she seemed to make up her mind, and nodded to herself. "Okay." Then with a snap, her pilgrim's stick was held behind her, just as Inshun had gripped his lance. Every part of her frail-looking body had become like iron. "If you land one blow on me, I'll bow down an' call you master."

"Ha! That's good!" said Kagura. "I like that kind of talk!"

She leapt.

"Yaaaa—aa—!"—she had meant to check her strike, just in case it turned out that Ayumu was only a defenseless pilgrim after all; and for a moment she thought it was still too much. Her swords cut thin air, as if they had effortlessly ripped through Ayumu's body—a sensation she had known before.

But there was no one in front of her.

Impossible! Although it had lacked force, the badger's-claw strike still extended far to the right, with her katana, and to the left with her short sword. Her reach was immense—no leaning back—and she had moved far too quickly for Ayumu to simply fall to the ground.

"He-ey, Kagura-dono! Hey, over here!"

Spinning around, she saw a white-clad priest standing on the arena wall, over twenty paces away.

"Can't be," she muttered, and took another stance.

"So," said Ayumu. "You wanted to be the strongest, right? But before ya can look for somethin', don't you have to know what it is?"

"Hey!" called Lord Yukari. "Less talking! More fighting!"

Ayumu's gaze shifted across the arena, to the Lord Magistrate. She balanced effortlessly on the thin wall, on the balls of her feet.

"What're you starin' at me for, Yukari-chan?" she said. "When was the last time you took a good look in a mirror? That'd be more interestin'."

As the Lord Magistrate and her retainers gaped at the inconceivable audacity of this remark, Ayumu leapt down from the wall.

"So tell me, Kagura-dono," she said, "what does it mean to be the strongest?"

"The strongest?" said Kagura. "It means you can beat everyone! What kind of question is that?"

Ayumu seemed puzzled by this. "Beat everyone? But that'd take your whole life, an' you still couldn't do it."

"I don't care," said Kagura. "I'll keep trying—even if it kills me. I'll get as close as I can. Otherwise, why was I born?"

"A lot of people were born, and they don't want to go beating each other up, Kagura-dono."

"I know!—But I'm different!"

Ayumu sighed. "I said it as plain as I could, but—"

"What, that chestnut?"

Ayumu nodded.

"Well—too bad, I don't understand what you mean! But maybe once I beat you, you'll understand what I mean!"

Kagura charged across the space between them.

Closer—closer—Ayumu stood motionless. Then as Kagura drew back her arm to strike, she felt an eruption of pain inside her forehead and chest. It seemed to, it had to have come from inside, it was so sudden—but she heard the crack and knew that Ayumu had vaulted over her, striking her twice as she did so.

Now the crowd began to stir. They watched Kagura pursue Ayumu across the arena, lashing the air with her swords like a madwoman, sending sunlight glancing in all directions. For all her speed, each strike had power that seemed drawn out of the ground itself—her feet planted firmly, every muscle in her body firing. It was an awesome display, and for all their initial scorn, they responded with cheers. Ayumu flew back, and her staff had become a solid barrier separating them—wherever either sword went, the staff was already there, and the soft wood met metal and held.

Impossible! Impossible! It was like a dream. Kagura had never moved with such grace and quickness—but then, she had never needed to. Most duels she had fought were decided within five blows. Even as she felt herself at the height of her powers, some force opposed her like heaven itself—and that staff, why didn't it break?

The moment they reached the far arena wall, Kagura's short sword flew through the air. Ayumu stood, again, balancing on the wall, one foot drawn up underneath her like a crane; her eyes strained after the flying sword.

"Is that the famous two-sword style? You really oughta keep a better grip on the other one, y'know."

"Shut up!"

Kagura gripped her katana with both hands, falling into a defensive stance, one knee forward. So her opponent's defense was strong, but could she—would she even attack?

Ayumu remained on her perch. "So tell me, Kagura-dono—what's the use in bein' the strongest? Wouldn't you rather have just one friend?"

"My friends'll respect me once I'm strong," said Kagura. "Wouldn't want it any other way."

"You idiot, that's not why they respect you! Then they'll just be afraid of you. And that's why this country's turning into hell—ol' Nobunaga brought it together n' all, and right away he turned into the prince of demons. He brought peace and right away everyone started choppin' each other up. They're all afraid, and they've got their hands on their swords even when they sleep. Is that what you call strength, Kagura-dono?"

"I—I don't know! Stop asking me all these stupid questions!"

Lord Yukari, though, no longer complained; she and the onlookers had been riveted by the display of skill. Even now Ayumu continued to balance impossibly on one leg.

Kagura dived. Still prone, she flung her short sword with one hand. As Ayumu raised her staff to block, tottering slightly, she leapt and cut with all her strength.

The short sword glanced off the top of Ayumu's staff; she took the blow of the katana on its center. Then, gripping each end with one hand, she gave a tug and it came apart with a sparkle.

So! That's the secret—Kagura thought, a moment before the sword-staff slashed down through the cord of her kimono.  
She fell back, gripping the garment in one hand and her sword in the other. Ayumu hadn't fallen—although it lacked all support, her body had felt like a post driven in the ground—but now she lost her balance, and leapt over Kagura and landed on the field.  
Turning she said: "Be careful there, you don't want to give anyone a glimpse of those big ol' breasts of yours!"

Then she laughed. Turning red, Kagura snarled:

"I've had enough! Alright, you've proved your strength; now I'll kill you!"

"Oh, don't do that!"

"Then defend yourself!"

Ayumu slowly shook her head. "Until you learn true strength, Kagura-dono, you'll never defeat me—or anyone."

She stood with the short, thin blade in one hand, its "sheath"—the other end of her staff—in the other. Kagura charged again; the blades clashed, locked. Skill aside, one fact quickly became obvious—Kagura was stronger. Ayumu began to slide back, and rather than yield, she managed to leap away.

They turned, circling. "So," said Kagura. "What's real strength…Miss Know-It-All priest?" Her voice was rough; she had exhausted herself.

"God gave everyone some strength," said Ayumu. "Why should anyone be proud he gave them a whole bunch? The only kind of strength worth gettin' is knowin' how to use what you got—and when to use it."

It rarely happens that a trick, used twice, is effective twice. But in cases performing the same trick, with even greater audacity, may be effective. When Kagura hurled her katana at Ayumu, even the unflappable priest let out a gasp and ducked. By the time she had caught her bearings, Kagura had rolled like a ninja across the ground, retrieved her short sword and—as Ayumu straightened—tore past her guard and held the blade to her neck.

It was a moment in which anything might have happened. Kagura still held her kimono in place with one hand; her face was twisted with anger. There was no hint of good nature in her eyes. Many in the crowd were sure that the priest's life was at an end. Ayumu herself, although she was surprised, only looked at Kagura and blinked—her expression mild—her sword held at her side. The moment seemed far longer than in fact it was.

"Who's strong?" whispered Kagura.

Ayumu sighed again, and the wind played over the grass.

"It'd appear," she said, "that brute strength has beaten true strength after all. I guess I was wrong."

At that, Kagura's eyes widened; she fell back. The sword became useless in her hand. If Ayumu's words had reached her, somehow, they did then in her moment of victory—but how that could be, one can only guess. Who knows the paths of the human heart?

Speechless, Kagura returned to the wall. She didn't even bother to retrieve her katana, but Ayumu, following after her, carried it cheerfully.

"Hey, Kagura-dono! I said that if ya landed a blow, I'd call you master—didn't I?"

"Forget it," said Kagura, stepping over the wall.

On the field, the herald announced: "Challenger Kasuga-sama seems to have forfeited! The victor—is Kagura-sama!"

The cheers began, and lasted quite some time. It came from all sides—men, women in children. In part because they knew it was the last fight they were likely to witness: the quarterfinals were decided, the day finished, and the future rounds would take place (they had been told) elsewhere. Lord Yukari did not want the "true" duels between her champions to be attended by such throngs, who would distract them. Different locations had been selected for the semifinal and final bouts, and while it might be possible for some to watch from a distance, this experience—the open air, the clash of swords, the cheers rising as one—would not be repeated.

* * *

Kagura walked down the alley, where she had stood with Ayumu before the match. In spite of her victory, she felt empty—not merely sad, but light, as if there were nothing of substance in her. Was this what the priests meant when they talked about emptiness?

In that place, possessed by that strange feeling, she was confronted with a figure that she was certain—for a moment—was a ghost.

"Please don't harm me," she said, involuntarily, hoping it would vanish.

Minamo Kurosawa stood there, indeed looking spectral in the dim light, with her pale purple kimono.

"I offer my congratulations on your victory."

"Sensei…"

"You've learned a great deal since you left my care," said Kurosawa. "I've only seen such elegant use of two swords—perhaps once in my life. I always knew…"

She turned away.

"What's the matter?" said Kagura, feeling as if she were twelve years old, with raw knees and sunburns, eating watermelon off the porch of the dojo. "Did I do something wrong? I'm sorry, I—"

"It's nothing," said Kurosawa sternly. "It's nothing."

Her voice was thick.

"Sensei."

"I came for no other purpose," said Kurosawa. "I should be going…"

"Sensei!" Kagura put out her hand, and Kurosawa stopped. "I, I—"

"Yes?"

"I…" but now she found that she couldn't speak herself.

Kurosawa turned her head the slightest degree. Kagura saw the line of her cheek, the teardrop running slowly down it. "It isn't proper that you address me as sensei," she said. "I am no longer your teacher. You must make your own path in the world—as you have. But know that…if you have need of me, I will be in attendance at the following matches, at the Lord Magistrate's request, and…" She smiled. "Know that I look forward to witnessing your performance."

Kagura let her hand fall. She said nothing else as she watched Kurosawa walk away.

* * *

AN: _And thus concludes the quarterfinals! I don't even know if that's a real word. Next up: Kagura vs. Kaorin. But first, an interlude._

_Osaka's "ol' Nobunaga" is Oda Nobunaga, the first unifier of Japan, not by most accounts a very nice guy. There's a funny, well, interesting scene in the movie _Rikyu_ where Nobunaga is entertaining some Christian missionaries, looking at a model globe and reflecting that the world is round. He says "I only trust what I see," and one his pages points out that the missionaries believe in heaven and hell after death. Nobunaga chuckles and says, "After death? What does that mean?"_

_And before y'all think Kaorin is a sicko, samurai really did compose poems in their own blood! Or at least, so I'm told. Incidentally, composing _tanka_ is fun. You'll have to keep an eye or me or I'll just write the rest of this story in _tanka_ form._


	10. One Life, One Meeting

AN: _A lot of this chapter turns on the Japanese word _aware_, as in _mono no aware_, which I usually see translated as 'the poignancy of things.' I think I prefer 'the sadness of things'—'poignancy' seems too clinical. In any case, it's a word with a broad meaning, but one of those things that when you see it, you know it (and I think most of us do)._

* * *

10. One Life, One Meeting 

In ancient times, men venerated the sun as Amaterasu, foremost of all the many gods of our land. But when the poetic mind reflects, how often is the sun—that human eyes can't even apprehend without suffering harm—its object? Is it not rather the moon, silent in the black sky, pregnant with secrets, that draws our soul's devotion? Without the sun, human life is impossible; but without the moon, life would have no savor. Such at least is one man's thought.

What is the moon, that it should have come to rest in the sky? Now we are told that it is nothing more than a piece of rock spinning around our planet, but to men of other ages—and, I suspect, even in our own—it must have seemed something rather different. The moon is reticent. It holds its peace, yet we feel that it has something to say.

That night the moon was full, but for a sliver. The cold air was still, and it was fixed in its place, surrounded by motionless bright stars—all like ice crystals formed on the expanse of the night. In the garden of Lord Yukari's estate, standing on the small bridge crossing the ornamental pond, a woman stood looking up at the moon.

The first round of the tournament was at an end. Baiken, sufficiently recovered from his injury—but with a bandage wound around the lower half of his face—had left Kyoto for his provincial home, along with his attendants. Tomonosuke Takino, recovering quickly, had flown into a terrifying rage, demanding a rematch—in the end a number of Yukari's guards were able to restrain her, not without injury. She returned to her estate, promising vengeance. Inshun's injuries, also, proved minor, and after respectfully taking his leave of the Lord Magistrate, he set off for the Hozoin temple. The whereabouts of Masaki Oyama were unknown.

The formalities concluded, the Lord Magistrate—in one of her characteristic fits of generosity—extended her own hospitality to the tournament winners for the night. She possessed a fine, Western-style horse-drawn carriage to convey them, which she even offered to drive herself, but her retainers—alluding to some "previous incident"—were dead-set against this plan. In the end, they traveled by separate carriages.

Kagura was shown to her room and slept like the dead. The light burned in Kaori Sakamoto's room for some time before she, too, retired. Then, near midnight, a shadow appeared on the open porch of the visitor's quarters and crept out into the garden: Sakaki moved quietly for so large an individual. She wore the clean white robes given to her courtesy of the Lord Magistrate, and her hair, newly washed, formed damp and heavy on her shoulders. Like Kagura, she had presented herself at the tournament all but alone, dressed in poor clothing, without a noble standard—but unlike Kagura, the paleness of her skin, the length and fineness of her hair, the delicacy of her features, all suggested that she had not been unused to such luxury all her life. In the moonlight, with her dampness—and the uncanny grace of her movement—she resembled nothing so much as a _yurei_, a female ghost.

Now she leaned on the railing of the bridge and watched the night sky. When she exhaled, small clouds of vapor formed in the air.

A voice came at her elbow: "Pardon me…May I join you?"

Sakaki nodded.

Kaori stood beside her, dressed in the same white robes, far smaller.

"Moon-viewing?"

"_Un_."

Kaori looked down. The water beneath their feet was completely still; the moon seemed to be floating on its surface.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?"

Sakaki said nothing. It was unclear, from her still features, if she were contemptuous, or indifferent, or merely shy.

"I like…beautiful things," said Karoi. She stood upright with her hands on the railing. "They call moments like this _mono no aware_, don't they? But somehow, when they say that it's _aware_—I don't feel that it's really _aware_ anymore. Or one might even say, that the moment I myself think 'this must be _aware_'—it isn't _aware_ anymore. Do you know what I mean?—But what am I doing, wasting the time of a swordsman of your ability with such idle talk. Forgive me."

Sakaki shook her head. "No, I—"

"I suppose I ought to be going…I'm sorry to have disturbed you."

"No…" said Sakaki. "Wait."

Kaori stopped, glanced back. The nape of her neck, exposed by the loose robe, was as white as powder in the moonlight.

"It's fine," said Sakaki.

They stood there in silence a while. Overhead, and reflected below in the pond, a small flock of geese winged by, their soft wingbeats floating down to earth.

"Miss Sakamoto…" Sakaki began.

"Please, if you would…call me Kaori."

"Miss Kaori, then…"

"Or, call me—Kaorin." Her voice shrunk almost to a whisper as she said this.

"Very well," said Sakaki. "Kaorin, of the Kurosawa style. You fight tomorrow, I believe?"

Kaori nodded. She looked down at the water. It might have been a trick of the dim light, but it seemed that, inside each of her pale cheeks, a red spot like blood from a sword was forming.

"Yes."

"Against Kagura?"

"Yes."

Sakaki paused before saying, thoughtfully: "Do you believe yourself a match for her?"

"I can't say…Her style is powerful. In fact, in some its particulars, I find that it resembles the Kurosawa style—but with the use of a second sword, that makes the long sword no less effective. She may be the most skilled opponent I have yet faced. But as I face her in a tournament, I have no choice. I must uphold the honor of the Kurosawa school…forgive me for going on at such length, Miss Sakaki."

"No," said Sakaki again. "It's fine. Kaorin…the honor of a school isn't so important. If you were defeated, you wouldn't serve your teacher either. Don't walk into a fight you don't believe you can win."

Facing the water, Kaori half-bowed. "Thank you for your kind—I mean to say, your wise words, Miss Sakaki. Kurosawa-sensei always said as much, herself. But nonetheless I feel…but, Miss Sakaki, do you—do you believe that Kagura is a match for _you_?"

Sakaki shook her head.

"That woman is strong. But I don't believe she's strong enough, not to give me what I want. The priest who faced her—_her_ power was unnatural. I believe she may have studied the Chinese martial arts. In any case, she only attained such power by following a different path than that of the samurai, and her purpose in entering the tournament—was different from Kagura's, and from my own."

"Your purpose…?" said Kaori. "Miss Sakaki, what—if you may pardon the rudeness of my asking—is, your purpose?"

"To find someone strong…" said Sakaki, and stopped.

"Someone strong? But not to defeat them?"

Sakaki shook her head.

Kaori, sensing she would say nothing more, asked nothing more.

"They say that the path of the samurai is the path of dying," said Sakaki, her voice a low murmur. "But…I find that's an empty phrase, for most. To truly resign oneself in the face of death is a skill few men posses. For most samurai, the possibility of death is merely a savor—that gives excitement to the certainty of living. I myself have followed this path since childhood, and I am no closer now, even in the face of death, to accepting it."

Kaorin glanced at her, puzzled. She, herself, was surely no match for Sakaki—and now she had said that she believed herself Kagura's better, as well. Why then did she say that she was facing death?

"And when it comes to that…" said Sakaki, her head lowered, her mouth barely opening as she spoke. "A part of me still wishes to live—to see the cherry blossoms falling, rather than become one with them. Is this what they call aware? But, I've been following this path so long that I no longer know. While my sword is sharp, my feelings are blunted…and I don't know what _aware_ is anymore."

"Don't say such things," whispered Kaorin. "I've seen it; you've a good heart. You're not like those samurai who become wicked and cruel, only pursuing strength. Your heart is still pure, still a woman's!"

"Do you really think so?" said Sakaki. "Thank you…you're very kind."

Kaori watched her in profile. After a moment, Sakaki went on:

"But I know the truth. And it won't be long now."

"Won't be long now?—What do you mean?"

Sakaki shook her head.

"Please, forget it. I'm the one who's wasting your time with idle talk."

"Miss Sakaki…I don't know how to make myself plain, but…if there's anything, anything at all, this humble one can do for you…"

"For me?" Sakaki looked at her, one long, fine eyebrow arched. "But we've only just met."

"Don't ask me to explain my heart," said Kaori. "Only know that—I'm devoted to you. And if need be, I'd defend you—I don't know how."

"Hmm." Sakaki returned her gaze to the sky. Her expression was slightly puzzled, though not displeased.

"And tomorrow," Kaori went on, "when I fight—I'll do my best. Though, should I win…"

Her words trailed off.

Abruptly Sakaki said: "Kagura's weakness is her impatience. Your greatest strength is your composure. Perhaps, after all…"  
Kaori's color deepened, and she looked down. Although Sakaki couldn't know it, the very fact that, tomorrow, she herself would be watching the fight, was no aid to Kaori's peace of mind.

They stood on the bridge, two small white figures in a vast expanse of darkness.

"Let's stay like this," she said. "A little longer…if you don't mind."

Sakaki nodded. "It's fine. I think I like it, too."

* * *

A figure crept back across the garden toward Sakaki's room. Like Sakaki, it was tall; unlike her it was dressed in black, and its shoulders were broad. 

The man mounted to the porch, glanced left and right and flattened himself against the wall. He saw the two women standing, side-by-side, on the bridge—too far off to take any notice of him. If he ran up against them, he wouldn't come off well; though he was more concerned about Lord Yukari's guards, and the penalty for trespassing.

The porch was only separated from the household by a thin shoji screen. Holding his toe against the bottom to brace it, keeping it from scraping, he slid it open only as far as was necessary to fit his large frame; then he immediately slipped through and shut it. Now inside, in the darkness, it would be impossible to tell if the noise had alerted anyone. He was still a moment, listening—nothing.

The moonlight penetrated the screen just enough to show him the bare particulars of the room. A bedroll with a small wooden pillow, untouched; a lacquered comb; a mirror. Items provided by the Lord Magistrate, no doubt, not the woman's own. Then in the corner—there is was. Casting a long shadow, the wooden sword. This was the room after all.

Moving soundlessly forward, the man reached inside his garment and removed a large bamboo tube. As he moved he seemed careful to keep his left arm still. He knelt.

"'Evening!" came a voice.

In a moment, the man had leapt across the room. Flat against the wall, he reached over one shoulder for the blade sheathed there, of the short, flat kind favored by assassins.

The voice came out of the shadows by the door. It was a woman's, one with a strong provincial accent.

"Y'know," she said, "I think you make a pretty good ninja, Oyama-kun. Maybe you should even take it up! But what're you doin', sneaking around here, anyway?"

Oyama spoke in a hiss: "I could ask you the same thing. We were both defeated, as I recall."

"And the doctor told you not to move that arm. Yer guts'll all spill out, Oyama-kun! But I got to hand it to you, you sure are up and about pretty soon after takin' that beating."

"Don't worry about me," said Oyama. "Worry about yourself. I really don't want to do this, but…"

Ayumu Kasuga stepped out of the shadows, holding her sword-staff in one hand. A childlike smile lit her face.

"Oyama-kun…I'm really gonna miss you."

"Why do you say that?" he said in the same angry whisper, coming through the cloth wrapped around his face. "Are you planning to kill me?"

Ayumu's eyes went wide. "Why, whatever gave you that idea! I'd never. It's just that you've gotta treasure these 'one life, one meeting' things."

Through the slit in his mask of wrappings, Oyama squinted at her. "'One life, one meeting?'"

"Ask Yomi about it, she'll tell you."

"I know what it _is_, but—are you completely out of your mind! If you're going to try and stop me, come on. If not, then leave me to my business…it's no concern of yours."

"Well," Ayumu looked thoughtful, "I don't know if I'd say that. If you're gonna commit a murder in the Lord Magistrate's house, then as a citizen, aint I got a duty?—and as a priest, too, for the sake of your own karma if nothin' else! What's in that tube you got there, Oyama-kun?"

Oyama held the bamboo tube in his left hand. He said nothing.

"C'mon, give it here—"

The staff flickered in the air as quick as a sword, and Oyama let out a yelp—the next moment, Ayumu held the tube above her head, and he clenched his smarting hand in his mouth. She opened it and peered inside.

A faint hissing noise filled the room.

"Ooh," said Ayumu, "he sure is cute! Where'd you find him?"

Biting his hand, Oyama again said nothing.

"Aw, lookit him, curled up all cozy in there. But if he bit me, I bet it'd be no joke—would it?" All of a sudden she looked directly at him. "Oyama-kun, why do you want to make the Buddha cry?"

"As if a cleric like you would understand," he muttered. "Cut yourself off from the world—have no attachments. But it isn't like that for the rest of us."

"Then what about your samurai honor? What'd Yomi-kun think?"

"It doesn't matter what she'd think," he said through grit teeth. "Don't you get it? Samurai honor only glosses the surface. As long as no one finds out about it, who's to say it even happened? It's more important for my honor that the woman who maimed Koyomi-sensei not get away with it—by whatever means."

Ayumu replaced the lid of the tube, and the hissing noise was muffled. Now if one were to inspect it, several small holes drilled in the side would become apparent.

Oyama went on, looking away from her: "People only care about what's on the surface—and they forget. If I'd beaten that Takino woman, they'd have remembered I won, but given time they'd forget exactly _how_ I won. And now that Koyomi-sensei's beaten…everyone's forgotten about her."

Ayumu watched him, her face pale, her clothing dark in the shadows. She said nothing.

"So who cares?" he finished. "No one's watching."

"You're wrong," said Ayumu. "The Buddha's watching."

At that, it was Oyama's turn to be silent. His eyes were on the moonlit screen.

"Tomorrow," she said, "go to Kiyomizu and pray to Kanon." Her voice turned friendly again as she added: "I'll try n' put in a good word for ya."

"Hmph."

"You love her, don't you?"

"What's that?" Oyama smirked. "You must be joking. 'Love' isn't an acceptable emotion for a samurai. And whoever heard of a student being in love with his teacher? The only way I can show my devotion—is by doing this."

Then, crossing the room in one step, he slid the screen open. Ayumu made no move to stop him. In a moment, he had vanished into the night—and she stepped forward and shut the screen again.

Looking down at the tube, she slid it into the throat of her tunic, saying: "I guess I'd better take care of this little fella, for now…"

She stepped out of the room a moment before Sakaki returned.

Entering, closing the screen behind her, she stood for a moment with a vague smile on her face. Then seeming embarrassed, she went quickly to the wall and took up her sword. She used it to turn back the sheets of the bedroll, and looked carefully, then in the various corners of the room—she'd glimpsed the dark figure fleeing across the courtyard. When she was satisfied, her smile returned. She set the sword back in its corner, then lay down with the light of the moon on her face.


	11. The Semifinals

AN: _Hey, I can upload documents again! Let's celebrate with another chapter!_

_ The title is "masked" above to keep from spoiling new readers scanning through the list _:-)_  
_

_ Things might get a bit dark, here, but Mr. Kimura makes another appearance, so it should all be good._

* * *

11. Kaorin vs. Kagura 

Shortly before the sun rose, the rain began.

Kagura knelt inside her room, peering around the screen. The courtyard was drenched. All of a sudden, what had been an artistic spectacle had become _terrain_—the water marking out high and low ground with perfect clarity. The ornamental pond had spilled over, and nearly half the area stood under an inch of water, but a large portion—that nearer to her—remained in the shape of a crescent, stretching from one side to the other. There were other, scattered patches of dry ground.

A servant bowed outside the door.

"Kagura-sama, I beg your pardon. I have spoken with Kaori-dono, and I bring her reply."

"So? What's she say?"

"The Lady Kaori wishes to convey to you that she, also, has no objection to going forward with the duel."

"Alright." Kagura returned her gaze to the gap in the screen. "Tell her I'll be ready."

The servant withdrew.

Earlier, he had come to announce that the site of the single semifinal bout would be the garden of the Lord Magistrate's own estate. However, due to inclement conditions, the Lord Magistrate wondered if one or both combatants would not prefer to postpone the bout.

Kagura had replied that, her opponent agreeing, she preferred to go ahead. Now it seemed that Kaori had no objection either.

The Lord Magistrate had set out garments for her, and she was dressed in a new, red kimono. On the mat at her heels her swords were laid out, side by side. She turned and faced them. In such a posture, it looked as if she were praying; and for the first time in many years, she felt the strong temptation to offer a prayer to the gods. But no, it was her own skill that would decide the matter; the gods couldn't care one way or the other. And no doubt Kaori, or at least those close to her, would be offering their own prayers.

She closed her eyes and remembered the way that Kaori had fought. So that was the Kurosawa style—in her years at the dojo she had never seen Miss Kurosawa herself engage in a bout, and the style as it was practiced by braggarts like Mirata didn't begin to approach that woman's level of skill. So it happened that, for some years after she was a fighter in her own right, she vainly believed that she had outgrown the Kurosawa style.

"Miss Kagura?"

She looked up.

A small girl stood in the doorway, her hair done up in two pigtails. She was smiling politely.

"Eh?—Who're you, the maid?"

Then she recognized Sakaki's tagalong.

"Oh, it's you…" Suddenly feeling vaguely ridiculous, kneeling so rigidly, she shifted into a more comfortable seated posture. "What d'you want?"

"Allow me to introduce myself," said the girl, bowing. "My name is Chiyo—well, just Chiyo. I'm a student of the Way of Sword."

"Oh yeah?" Kagura cocked one eyebrow. Then she smiled. "Well, come on in."

"Oh, thank you!" Chiyo entered and knelt down beside her. Without ceremony, she began: "Miss Kagura, if you don't mind, I wanted to know more about you. I've made it my business to learn more of the Way of the Sword—and seeing as you're such an accomplished swordsman…"

Kagura shook her head. "I'm not," she repeated. "There's just a lot of weak people in the world."

"I see…" Wide-eyed, Chiyo regarded her. "Is that true? It seems to me as if there were a lot of strong people. Only,"—she hesitated—"some are stronger than others. Like you, and…Miss Sakaki."

"You think I'm in the same league as her?"

Chiyo shook her head. "I couldn't say. I don't know very much about these things. As far as I know, you've both beaten every opponent you've faced, but…"

"Hmm. Guess there's only one way to find out, then.—As for me, what's to say? My whole life I felt like I could do it better than anyone else, and so far I've been right."

"Who was your teacher, if I may ask?"

"Didn't have one."

"Then what style do you practice?"

"Don't got one."

"I see." Chiyo was nodding, attentive. "And—forgive me for speaking so bluntly, Miss Kagura, but—you are a ronin, like Miss Sakaki?"

"Heh. Well, not really. That'd be like calling a wild dog a stray, right? Truth is, I never was a samurai to begin with."

"Then…?"

"Hmm?"

Chiyo's eyes had drifted toward the two swords, in their unadorned, black lacquer sheaths. They didn't seem to be blades of high quality—at least, they weren't fancy.

"Oh, those?" Kagura chuckled. "Don't worry, I didn't steal 'em—I'm not some bandit. A real ronin gave 'em to me. I met him not longer after I…set out on my own, in a noodle shop, and…we got to talking, and I ended up following him for a while."

"But he gave you his swords, Miss Kagura?"

"Not for free."

"What did you—exchange for them?"

Kagura shrugged. "The only thing a woman can exchange," she said.

Chiyo, in spite of her age, apparently knew enough to turn pale. "You don't mean…"

"Yep," said Kagura. "I cooked for him. About two months—you wouldn't _believe_ the junk he was eating before. After that, he told me the life of the swordsman wasn't for him anyway…he'd just grown up in a samurai household, got the swords handed down to him. He even joked that maybe some god had switched our souls at birth. Anyway, they don't look like anything special, but—they're good. Won me more fights than I can count by now.

"But what about you? Why are you following that—Miss Sakaki, around like that?"

Chiyo looked away. "As I said," she answered, sounding somewhat evasive, "I'm a student of the Way of the Sword."

"You seem kinda well brought-up, though. Heh. You're kind of a ronin yourself, aren't ya? Don't worry, you don't have to tell me what happened."

Chiyo was silent. Kagura understood—with the battle of Sekigahara still a recent memory, there were no end of wanderers from all classes, with their stories of how they had become alone, impoverished, shamed. Herself a traveler, she had heard them all.

"Your master. You don't mind telling me, what's _her_ style?"

"She calls it the _Kamineko_ style, Miss Kagura—but I don't know where she learned it. Form what she said, I thought that…" her voice dropped momentarily, "a god might have taught it to her."

Kagura laughed. "Ha! That's good. The gods don't go around teaching people how to swordfight. But with talent like that—she's kind of like a god herself, isn't she?" At that, her laughter trailed off, and her eyes lingered in a corner of the ceiling. She'd delayed too long, perhaps. She stood. Then, impulsively, she reached down and ruffled Chiyo's hair. "Hey, wish your big sis luck! I don't bear that Kaori any grudge, but I want to fight your master. You be sure to tell her that, too."

"Oh," said Chiyo, "here, allow me—" Quickly, she moved to help Kagura attach the swords to her sash. "Miss Kaori has so many students, you see, it hardly seems right…"

"Hmph." Kagura said nothing, but allowed herself to be assisted.

"But are you really going to fight in all this rain…?" said Chiyo.

"It'll hurt her just as much as it hurts me," said Kagura. "A samurai can't decide when he's going to fight—or die. If I know anything about the Way of the Sword, I know that much."

* * *

Under the awning of the porch, five chairs had been assembled. In the center sat the Lord Magistrate, her legs crossed, belligerently cooling herself with a fan in spite of the chill and humidity.

"Honestly, Yukari," muttered Kurosawa, seated next to her, "at a time like this…?"

"I paid three whole _ryu_ for this fan!" snapped Yukari. "It's gold-plated, _gold_-plated! You think I'm about to stop using it just because summer's over? Huh, think again!"

"_Stingy_," muttered Kurosawa. It seemed that even the inheritance of her father's vast wealth had failed to change her friend's miserly habits.

"What's that, Nyamo?"

"Nothing, nothing, your Lordship…"

On the other side of her, her husband, Kimura, sat with an weirdly rigid posture, his hands on his knees. The water poured down in front of him. He resembled some sort of ascetic monk.

On the other side of Lord Yukari sat Chihiro, Kaori's chief student. Beside her sat Sakaki, silent and motionless, her hands placed together in her lap. In front of them kneeled several more of Kaori's students, all dressed in white. It was a strange little scene underneath the dripping eave, so silent and still, like the miniature dolls assembled for the children's festival.

Chihiro raised her head. "Oh, look; they're coming…!"

"Eh?" Yukari turned her head.

Kurosawa's expression was serious as she watched Kaori emerge from the house, from her quarters, on their left.

Yukari was squinting. "Mm. Sort of hard to see with all this water, isn't it? Wish they'd just put it off. Samurai are so damn stubborn."

Kaori had stepped off the porch and was standing in the rain. Her feet were submerged to their ankles in water. She stood with her head slightly lowered, her hands at her sides.

"Oi, Nyamo. What odds do you give your girl?"

Her eyes fixed on Kaori, Kurosawa didn't answer.

Kaori looked up. The rain fell around her, but she stood upright and still. Across the courtyard Kagura appeared. She let herself down carefully from the porch, her attitude casual, and finished tying back the sleeves of her kimono—hers red to Kaori's white, both colors washed pale by the rain.

"Ooh," muttered Yukari. "This should be good."

"_Shh,"_—Kurosawa held her finger to her lips.

For once her friend, even the Lord Magistrate, was silent.

The man who had served as herald in the semifinals, Momota Chiba by name, stood underneath the awning opposite them. He raised his fan and pronounced:

"Kaori-sama, Kagura-sama. Your honor will serve better than any rule I could hand down. May the gods favor who they will—begin!"

The figures of Kaori and Kagura appeared small and far apart, not at all like the dangerous human beings the onlookers knew them to be. It was impossible to make out their expressions. When the signal was given, Kaori stood by the porch, never having reached for her sword. The distance separating them was some one fifty paces.

"My," said Kimura suddenly, in his monotone, startling everyone. "She certainly has grown into a fine young woman."

Kurosawa nodded. "She has."

Yukari, assuming he was referring to Kaori, took no notice.

"Her figure—is so statuesque and womanly. Upright, bold, and so _large_, like a sunflower…"

"Dear," said Kurosawa flatly, looking sideways at him.

"Ah," he sighed. "But if only she were wearing a white kimono—!"

Slowly, Kagura drew her sword, the noise mixing with the patter of falling water. No light reflected off the metal. Then she began to run forward soundlessly, following an uneven course as she kept to the dry, raised ground; but her silence belied the incredible speed with which she moved. Although Kaori had begun to move an instant later, they met only a short distance from the place where she had stood.

There was no sound. The combatants moved around each other as if they had only brushed elbows.

* * *

Kagura stood in the middle of the courtyard and turned, bringing up her swords. Kaori stood just outside her reach, half-facing her. In her hand was her short sword, still in its mother-of-pearl sheath.

She didn't understand what had happened. She must have reacted on instinct—otherwise, she knew, she would be dead. Somehow she and Kaori had moved close enough to embrace each other, and still neither of them had suffered any injury—she only remembered the feeling of silk brushing up against her.

The expression on Kaori's face was almost listless.

"Is that the Kurosawa style?" said Kagura—and was surprised to find her voice hoarse.

"Yes," whispered Kaori. "The Springtime Passing cut. You're extremely fast—most swordsmen wouldn't be able to avoid it. My compliments."

"I don't remember that one," said Kagura.

"You don't…?"

Kaori looked at her. She was clearly puzzled, but said nothing further.

Kagura spread her balance, putting each foot on two separate, small rises. Kaori didn't move. Kagura replaced her short sword in its sheath, and put both hands on the hilt of her katana. She needed focus.

Kaori stood on a single spot of ground, water on all sides of her.

"Your style…" she said.

"What about it?"

"It _is _the Kurosawa style."

Kagura spit into the rain. "Used to be," she said. "Not anymore."

Kaori's eyes were beginning to widen.

"I guess Sensei never told you about me?"

Kaori shook her head. "Then, you—"

"That's right," said Kagura, and her gaze strayed briefly over her right shoulder—to where the spectators sat, craning their heads to watch. "Those students?—should be _my_ students."

"If you abandoned the Kurosawa style," said Kaori, "then it isn't for you to pass on. Your skill is great—but win or lose, I will remain true to my school's teaching."

But even as she spoke, her eyes were wandering also. When Kagura had glanced back, so had she, and now she looked for a moment at a certain person seated there.

Kagura leapt. Even as she leapt backward, Kaori drew her sword; she landed on the porch with the blade in one hand and the scabbard in the other, her stance open. Kagura stood where she had only a moment before. She swung, and but she misjudged the distance through the water, and Kaori began to move to the side.

Kagura's feet dipped down into water as she followed. It was cold, and clung to her ankles like sinking sand. Kaori, above her, had the advantage, but the low-hanging eve prevented a downward stroke. In silence they moved down the south face of the courtyard, Kagura splashing quietly. Then when Kaori passed behind a pole, quick and white, her form disappeared.

"_No_!" Kagura gasped out loud. Even as she fell for the trick she understood it, but she was powerless to stop her body. Panicking, she had swung blindly, and Kaori—moving on light girl's feet—darted back out the way she had come, and leapt down into the water. As Kagura's stroke extended, the short sword flashed and cut her side.

* * *

"_Stupid_," muttered Kurosawa—her knuckles pressed to her mouth. "_Too eager. Leave yourself open._"

"Just whose side are you on?" came Yukari's voice, loud in her ear.

* * *

Kagura fell back. The wound was shallow—she'd flinched—but it had only been a preparatory cut. Now Kaori was advancing, swinging sword and scabbard, as she had advanced on Baiken the day before—rhythmic and seamless. Her sword sent beautiful arcs of water through the air as she spun. The defense of the Kurosawa school was spectral, like a puff of gas floating on a marsh, and then from nowhere it erupted.

Kagura had carefully mapped the terrain before she charged, and knew more or less where to place her feet as she ran backwards. She didn't attempt to counter. As she moved she stabbed Kaori with her eyes, searching for one small gap in the vast, impossibly elegant sweep of her defense; but there was nothing. Her hair tied back with a strip of white silk, its loose ends flying around her face as she moved, Kaori came on.

They reached the edge of land. Kagura splashed back into the water around the site of the pond, keeping her guard high; and as she sensed the rhythm changing, Kaori checked herself. She stood on the high ground, in a position of certain victory; Kagura was sunk to her knees. She stopped with her sword held behind her head, ready to deliver a fatal blow. It was such a subtle, but still definite contrast between a position of absolute victory and absolute defeat, that many a swordsman would have surrendered then.

Her eyes beside the point of her blade, Kaori looked at Kagura. Everything changed.

* * *

Kurosawa nearly rose from her seat. "It can't be—!"

* * *

_It can't be_. Kaori's body shook like a reed hit by a single blast of wind. Her sword wavered. When she had looked into Kagura's eyes, a force had run through her body through the tip of her sword, like poison. For a moment she had no strength. Then as she recovered, Kagura leapt from her position with a roar rising deep in her throat.

With her first stroke she cut the scabbard of Kaori's sword in half, sending it flying from her hand. Her second sheared straight across Kaori's face—but rather than her head rolling, her headband only fluttered away and landed in a pool of water, and her hair fell loose. She staggered back. Kagura swung again, and the keen of the metal rose well over the rain.

Kaori jumped ten paces to the right and landed on dry ground, on her feet. She gripped her sword with both hands and stood.

_Was that_, she thought, even as her opponent streaked toward her, _the Killing-Stroke Eye…?_

The moment before Kagura reached her, a slick of dark hair fell in front of her right eye.

All five spectators, and the seven girls kneeling in front of them, were on their feet. The Lord Magistrate let out a horrible shriek and immediately fell backward.

Breaking her fall Chihiro, her face already tear-streaked, turned toward Kurosawa howling: "_Sensei_—!"

Kimura gaped. The girls clutched at each other.

Still hanging in the air in front of them, like an enormous flower that had bloomed there, was the blood spurt. It engulfed Kagura who stood there stricken, her sword motionless in mid-blow. As Kaori fell backwards, weightless, Kurosawa dashed across the courtyard, plowing through puddles, throwing off her over-coat as she did so.

Kaori fell face-up. Kurosawa was beside her, tearing the sash from her own kimono; and as she did so her two swords, priceless treasures forged in the time of the Heike, fell in the dirty gray water. Kagura stood over them. Her face was blank, her sword still raised. The blood had covered the right half of her face and chest and stained the sword all along its length.

Kaori was thrashing with all the force of a dying fish. Holding her, rolling her with sure, powerful movements, Kurosawa was winding the sash around her body. When it was fixed in place, she tore away Kaori's own sash and wound it, as well, just below her shoulders. The blood still pumped into the water.

Kagura had thrown her sword away. With shaking hands, she removed her sash and, holding her kimono closed with one hand, held it down to Kurosawa, who took it wordlessly. When all three were fixed in place, the flow of blood seemed to slow. One of Kaori's arms was pinned to her side, turning white. The other lay on the white gravel not far off, severed just below the shoulder.

Now guards and attendants came splashing towards them. The world seemed to sway on its foundations, and the air was thin. Kagura gasped.

Standing, Kurosawa barked orders at the attendants even as they knelt to lay hands on Kaori: "Whatever you do, keep pressure applied! The cut is clean, but she doesn't have much time before she bleeds to death! Just be careful and—"

They were gone.

Kurosawa and Kagura stood together.

On the porch, the Lord Magistrate had curled up in her chair, clutching her knees, and shrieked: "Blood…blood…_blood_!—Get it away!" meanwhile Chihiro tried to calm her. Sakaki had never moved, and looked on impassively. Kimura, for his part, regarded his wife with quiet respect where she stood, breathing heavily.

The herald's fan came down: "The winner is Kagura-sama! Well fought."

There was a spark of satisfaction in the old man's eyes—he was, after all, a samurai.

But as for Kagura herself, she knelt on the ground near her discarded sword. It was impossible for the onlookers to see, and even had they been closer, it would have been difficult to tell the rainwater streaking down her face from her tears. But she was silent. Her hands clenched her knees. When she looked up, Kurosawa was looking down at her,.

"She should've blocked," said Kagura. "I-if she'd blocked…I'd have disarmed her."

Kurosawa didn't answer.

Kagura lowered her eyes. Looking at the red of her kimono, further stained with blood, one thought—absurd in its phrasing—came irresistibly, again and again, into her mind:

_Why do I always have to be so boorish?_

* * *

AN: _One short chapter, then it's Kagura vs. Sakaki all the way._


	12. Rivals

AN: _Kagura: I WANNA, WANNA BE YOUR FRIEND!_

_Don't look at me, it's from her theme song! I saw it on YouTube._

_ Okay, so now Review Alerts aren't working...I don't know what that means for PMs and Review Replies, just a heads-up. _

_A minor crossover begins here, but it's nothing that requires prior knowledge. If you do source it, though, you might be able to guess where things are headed._

* * *

12. Rivals 

No one bothered the samurai sitting near the back of the tea shop, his basket hat tilted over his face. Although he wore two swords, his appearance was singularly unassuming, his clothing pale, and even the waitresses seemed to have forgotten about him. He might have fallen asleep—but cut into his hat were a number of small, vertical slits, so that if his eyes were open behind it, he would be able to survey the room.

A small man, dressed like a petty official, entered through the curtain, and after a moment his blinking eyes settled on the quiet samurai. He moved to his table and sat down.

Breezing past, the waitress called: "Your order, sir?"

"Sake, two _mon_ worth."

"Comin' right up!"

The small shop, located on a popular corner of the merchant's district, was busy; yet the samurai remained comfortably seated, neither eating nor drinking. Beside him the official stretched, groaned, and settled forward.

The samurai's bearded chin was visible underneath the brim of his hat. His voice, emerging, was mild. "Long journey?"

"You don't know the half of it. After all, we've been scrambling around this city all day—but, we've confirmed it. She's staying with the Lord Magistrate as we speak."

"She is, you say?"

"Beyond any doubt."

"Have you seen her with your own eyes, Sannosuke?"

The official shook his head. "But everyone says so. The second round was fought yesterday, and by all accounts, Kaori Sakamoto was maimed by some unknown—lost an arm. Today decides if she lives or dies, then tomorrow it's _that_ woman—against _our_ woman."

A chuckle drifted from underneath the samurai's hat. "So, the Kurosawa and Mizuhara schools both lost their best arms to some vagrant! But that's the way it goes. These are interesting times we live in. Only, one of them isn't really a vagrant—is she?"

The waitress set the official's small cup of sake in front of him, pausing briefly in her circuit. He gazed at it without drinking.

"Hmm," the samurai went on. "Still, it wouldn't do to be mistaken. Is there any chance I could get a good look at her myself?"

"None. Unless you wanted to go to the manor yourself, but that would bring matters to a head more quickly than we might like, whether it is our girl or not."

"Where is her duel taking place, then?"

"Okishima."

"Oki Island, you say? I suppose they want to keep away the crowds? And that means keeping us away as well. However…I hear that one can get quite a pleasant view of Okishima from Sozue hill."

A smile slowly crossed the official's face. "That one can. If one doesn't mind rubbing elbows with a lot of commoners, that is."

"Sannosuke. Aren't you going to drink your sake?"

The official waved his hand. "Ah, help yourself. I'm not actually thirsty."

"Why, thank you." With one rigid hand, even the muscles in its fingers defined, the samurai lifted the cup and drank. When he set it back down with a soft click, he spoke again: "What a shame. I was rather hoping to confront her in battle…but in the end, I hardly think that would be seemly. It's best to do things officially—as always."

Again, the official smiled. "I'm so glad you understand us, Kariya-san. That is to say, one might expect a swordsman of your skill—I mean no offense—to be something of a maverick…"

"Don't worry, Sannosuke," said Kariya. "This one is a man of the times."

* * *

_Where is that stupid know-it-all priest when you need her?_

Kagura sat on the rear porch of the Lord Magistrate's mortuary hall. It was there, among the perpetually smoking incense and the funeral tablets of Yukari Tanizaki's ancestors—including her father and her two elder brothers, the one killed, the two exiled by Tokugawa Ieyasu—that the heir of the Kurosawa style lay in delirium, attended by her physicians.

It had seemed to Kagura like a sign of bad faith—sort of like holding a wedding in a graveyard. But Yukari, a Nichiren Buddhist, seemed to think that proximity to the souls of the dead would somehow help stave off Kaori's death. It was funny, Kagura wouldn't have pegged the loud and frivolous Lord Magistrate for a religious woman.

The clouds had lifted, but not entirely. A weak sunlight fell on the grounds, and the rain-drenched trees and grass looked wilted and lifeless. She swung her legs off the porch, dressed again in her own blue kimono, bleached by a lifetime on the roads.

The porch creaked, and she turned her head.

Kurosawa stood there, silent and pensive in the damp air. She had not changed her clothes since yesterday.

"How is it?" said Kagura.

Kurosawa shook her head.

She waited.

"The doctor said…" Kurosawa began, looking away from Kagura, at the wall that stood in front of them. "He said that her life is hanging by a thread like spider's silk." A faint smile touched her drawn face. "Poetic, for a man of his profession."

Kagura said nothing. Kurosawa sat down beside her, lowering her legs carefully over the edge of the porch.

The air had the sharp smell of wet dirt.

"Don't be foolish," said Kurosawa. "Kaori was a samurai. She knew that she might die at any moment—"

"She's not gonna die!" said Kagura.

Taken aback, Kurosawa stopped.

"She's not gonna…she's got to challenge me to a rematch. Get her honor back." She gave a weak smile.

"You know that wouldn't be possible," said Kurosawa, and as she said so Kagura realized why.

Kaori's injury had, in a sense, been kinder than Koyomi's—the arm, her left, had been removed in one stroke, no need for the further pain of surgery.

"In any case," Kurosawa went on, "she was prepared for death, or any injury. If she could speak—I'm sure she'd tell you to stop reproaching yourself. The same might well have happened to you."

"But…" Kagura started.

In her heart, she doubted it. She had won her victory fairly, to the acclaim of all, not like that louse from the Mizuhara school. But she felt it—that if Kaori had been in her place—which might, given how closely they were matched, have easily happened—she would have managed, somehow, to disarm her.

That was her strength. Her strength was gentleness.

"It's funny," she said, almost in a whisper. "I mean as a swordsman…student of this 'Way of the Sword' thing…samurai, ronin…whatever you want to call it. You spend your whole life looking for some 'worthy opponent.' But then when you find that person—you've gotta beat them up, even kill them! How fair is that?"

She looked at her once-teacher, and saw that she was smiling, as if she knew—in spite of the convoluted way in which she expressed herself, as always—what was meant. The smile touched a place in Kagura's chest.

They both knew it: Kaori's swordsmanship had been a thing of beauty. Kagura had spent years searching for something like it—and no sooner had she found it then she destroyed it.

"I'm sure that Kaori," said Kurosawa, "feels the same way. She would have been glad simply to fight a worthy opponent—no matter what the outcome."

"Yes. I guess so. But…"

She didn't finish. Silence hung between them, and it was silent in the room at their backs. From time to time, some small cry of the patient's would drift out, but for the moment it seemed that she was unconscious. At least, so they hoped.

After the pause, Kagura spoke again.

"Miss Kurosawa…"

"Please," said Kurosawa. "Call me Minamo."

Kagura blushed. "I couldn't," she blurted out. "You're still…the fact is you're still _sensei_ to me!"

Kurosawa shook her head. "Kagura, I consider you my equal. If any difference still exists between our skill, it's only a matter of experience. One day you could be my equal—this I believe."

"Miss Kurosawa!"

"Do you remember when the tide turned? You looked at Kaori and she flinched. It isn't like a trained warrior such as Sakamoto to lose her nerve. But that was the fourth esoteric secret of the Kurosawa school—the Killing-Stroke Eye. No one taught it to you. Kaori herself never mastered it, because it can't be mastered. Simply through the practice of the style, as your sword became one with your body, so your sword became one with your eye—and that is the final expression of the Kurosawa style, as my father taught it to me, and as his father, in turn, taught it to him. Kagura. I don't say you should have taken Kaori's place—but had matters been different, I would have been honored…to have you as my disciple."

"Sensei," said Kagura.

Kurosawa was looking ahead, her expression fixed.

"Sensei…" Then her face screwed up. "I wanted," she said, and wiped her face with the sleeve of her kimono. "I wanted to talk to someone…like that stupid priest. But she's not here, and—I just wanted to talk to someone, and…please don't go," she finished.

"It's fine," said Kurosawa. "I won't."

"I wanted to talk to someone for a long time. I should've talked to Kaori, I wish I'd talked to her. Just talked."

As she was speaking quickly, heedlessly, another set of footsteps disturbed the porch. Kagura was too absorbed to take notice, but Kurosawa turned her head.

"Ah—sensei!"

The elderly physician stood there, specks of blood on his smock. He had a withered face that had never, in the short time Kurosawa had known him, expressed any emotion.

"Sensei," she said, "how is she? Please…don't spare me."

"I can't say when she'll wake up," he said, his old voice like a chanter of sutras. "I can, however, state with some confidence that she will."

He vanished again around the corner of the building.

Kagura threw herself at Kurosawa. Kurosawa put her arms around her, as surely as she had handled the injured Kaori the day before, and held her. Kagura's powerful shoulders heaved.

"Don't worry," Kurosawa whispered to her, not fully knowing what she was saying. "You tried, you tried very hard…No matter what happens, your effort won't go to waste."

* * *

Sakaki sat alone in her quarters, the screen opened to receive the warmer air. Although reclining, she did not look entirely at peace. Then again, her face, so precise and still, rarely showed any strong emotion. But the thick crest of ice on a river, in winter, hardly means that the river has stopped flowing. 

She had requested paper, ink, and a brush from the servant, and the Lord Magistrate had gladly complied. Now the parchment stood in front of her, on the low table. After an indefinite amount of time spent gazing past the screen, she turned and began to write.

_Daremo katte_

_Ichigo koto aru_

_Itsuka au._

"Anyone who has ever

Exchanged one word

Will meet again."

In the hall, the servant bowed and announced: "Miss Sakaki, I beg your pardon. Miss Kagura wishes to speak with you."

Sakaki's hand lifted from the paper with a start. Without turning, she said: "Very well…show her in."

Kagura entered, ducking under the lintel. Scratching the back of her neck, she seemed rather embarrassed than apprehensive. When Sakaki said nothing, she knelt beside the table.

"So, uh…" she began. "You know me."

Sakaki nodded.

"I saw you at Kiyomizu—and I guess you saw me fight yesterday. I never actually saw _you_ fight, but…everyone says you're pretty good."

Although Sakaki didn't answer, it was clear that she was not ignoring Kagura. The words registered subtly in her eyes and mouth.

"So anyway," said Kagura, "I guess that means we're rivals! Pleased to meet you!"

Kneeling, she bowed. After a moment, Sakaki bowed as well.

"Good, I'm glad that's out of the way!—What you got there, a poem? Y'know, I never really understood that stuff."

Sakaki's eyes strayed to the paper. She colored slightly.

"Neither do I," she said.

Kagura's lips moved as she read to herself. When she was finished, she scratched her head.

"However…" Sakaki went on. "I do like poems of this sort. They don't require so many words. Only the handful of words that happen to be in one's mind."

"A handful of words, huh?" said Kagura.

"Here," said Sakaki, offering the brush. "Why don't you try?"

"Me? Ah, heh…I could never…well. I guess I could." The slim, ivory-handled brush looked fragile in her large dark hand. She held it vertically in a fist. "Tell the truth," she added, "I'm not so good at writing."

Sakaki shook her head. "It doesn't matter. What you write will express what's in your heart."

"You think so?"

"_Un_." She nodded. "Five characters for the first line. Seven for the second. Five for the third—that is, if you want to write one like mine."

"I got it, I got it…"

In big, sprawling characters, Kagura wrote:

_Osakaki-san!_

_Yobousugi jane._

_Washi makenai!_

"Hey, great big Miss Sakaki!

Don't get too confident.

I'm not gonna lose!"

They both looked down at the parchment.

"Huh," said Kagura. "I guess that is pretty easy."

When she looked up, Sakaki was smiling—but the smile vanished, as quickly as a dead leaf blown by the wind.

She got to her feet. "Very well," she said. "I won't hold back either."

AN: _Next up: Kagura dies! Thanks for reading!_

_  
(j/k.) (or am I?)_

_By a certain method of reckoning, there are actually two "crossovers" of a sort. For bonus points, what other famous event took place on Okishima (Oki Island)? _


	13. The Breaking Waves

13. The Breaking Waves

* * *

"In emptiness there is good but no evil. Wisdom exists, logic exits, the way exists, mind is empty." 

—Miyamoto Musashi

* * *

The sea rolls and turns. As the wind moves over the land, so currents move through the water; and as no one can say where the wind blows from, or where it blows to, so no one can say what moves the deep. Is it any wonder that men once believed a separate god responsible for the sun, the moon, the wind and each star? One can only imagine what it must have been like to be alive at that time. Yet even now, perhaps we only believe that we understand. We are surrounded by forces and objects of which, in the end, we know nothing, and are at their mercy. The gods of old may be alive and well, and even yet might crush us with a swipe of their lordly hand. As a poet of the West would say, some years later, but with our own Japanese flair for precise expression: 

"Still the same sea around us raves / but mute we stand, and watch the waves."

Sakaki rowed the scull through the waters of Minaga bay. The bout was to take place at midday, and she and Chiyo had been traveling since sunrise; first to reach the landing, then by boat toward Oki Island. Okishima was one of many small, forested patches of land that clogged the Oi river where it widened, some ten miles east of Kyoto, and was known for its stands of virgin bamboo. It was not far across: standing on a hill at one end, one could see its entirety.

Earlier still, the Lord Magistrate's boat had launched, carrying Kagura as well as the few permitted to witness the bout—Lord Yukari herself, Minamo Kurosawa, several of Yukari's most trusted retainers, Kimura and Chihiro. Sakaki had decided to arrive separately, begging a last-minute errand; no one would have suspected a woman such as her of having turned coward.

Even Chiyo hadn't been able to imagine what errand might be keeping her master—perfecting some new, unstoppable technique? But when, a half-hour after the boat had launched, she finally emerged from her quarters, she was carrying a small wooden carving in her hands.

The only "weapon" Sakaki carried was the small knife she had used to carve her wooden sword, and she had used it to carve this _netsuke_ as well.

Through somewhat crude, it was recognizable—a small cat, sitting atop a larger one.

Although Chiyo's heart leapt at the gesture of this gift from her master, now, at such a moment, she nonetheless asked: "Miss Sakaki…what is it?"

"_Neko koneko_," said Sakaki.

"Well, I know it's a cat and a kitten, but—does it mean something?"

Sakaki's demeanor was still more distant than usual. Standing in the dim light, in her dark purple kimono, she seemed to disappear.

"When you became my companion," she said, "you said that you wanted me to instruct you in the Way of the Sword. This I was unable to do…" She wouldn't look at Chiyo, who started to protest, and went on. "When I was younger, I would have taught you a great deal…I think. But as I grow older, I find I know less and less. This—" she glanced at the cat-shaped _netsuke_ in Chiyo's hands—"is everything I know—everything I could ever teach you."

The puzzlement had not left Chiyo's eyes, but she lowered her head.

"Thank you very much, Miss Sakaki."

Now, as Sakaki rowed and Chiyo, sitting in the stern, faced her, the carving was nestled in the throat of her kimono. She could feel its soft weight there. What had Sakaki meant by it? And at present her face, as she looked over her shoulder in the direction of their course, was just as unreadable. The bright light fell and the water sparkled crazily around them, like liquid gold—it shone on Sakaki's profile, on the lines of her nose and chin.

"Sakaki-san…" Chiyo began.

Immediately Sakaki's eyes flitted to her. "Yes?"

"Aren't you…" Apologetically, Chiyo smiled. "Please, forgive me. I'm always saying the same thing. But aren't you afraid at all? Even if you think you can beat Miss Kagura, she's so strong, and one never knows what might happen…"

Sakaki smiled back at her. It was a new gesture, touched with a warmth and gentleness Chiyo had never seen, although she had not doubted Sakaki's heart—a smile like the sunlight on the water. For a moment she was silent, and the oars lapped.

"Recently I had a thought," she said. "Is there any thing in heaven or earth worth being afraid of?"

Chiyo's eyes went wide as she considered.

"Perhaps there isn't," Sakaki went on. "Perhaps even death is only a stage on the way. Perhaps that's what it means not be afraid of death—not to kill one's fear, but to understand it for what it truly is. That everything passes away, no one can doubt. But to say that it passes, does that mean it will be lost…? Somehow, I don't think anything will be lost."

Around them loomed spars of rock—they were nearing the island. Chiyo had fallen silent, studying the planks in the bottom of the boat.

Sakaki's rowing was clean, quick and sure, and the scull seemed to float above the surface of the water.

As Chiyo raised her head, all at once she sat upright, her expression frantic.

"Miss Sakaki—!"

Sakaki never flinched. Some time before Chiyo's alarm, her grip on the oars had tightened imperceptibly.

"Don't worry," she said.

Behind her, in the frothing waters passing between the rocks, the prow of another boat had appeared. It was rather larger than their scull, but still moved quickly—and within a moment its passengers were visible.

Chiyo went pale as she moaned: "P-P-P…"

Sakaki's sword lay in the prow, at her back. She had yet to even look around, but checked the oars and left the scull drift forward, even as the other vessel made for them.

"_P-Pirates_!" shrieked Chiyo. "Oh no, oh no, my great-uncle got attacked by pirates in the South China Sea, and they took all the gold on his ship and—!"

"Whatever happens," said Sakaki, "keep your head down."

She stood up. One oar she left in its lock; the other she had gripped further out, and as she stood, drew it up with her. Now she held it in one hand. Still she didn't turn. The other vessel had tacked sharply left, and now slid past them.

Like their own, it carried two passengers; men, dressed in motley, their faces wrapped, one carrying a crude sword, the other a rifle.

The second boat appeared. One of its passengers, carrying a lance with crescent-shaped blade—that seemed conspicuously fine for a mere pirate, with its cherry-colored haft and polished, glowing blade, but perhaps she had pillaged it—was a woman. The man behind her, rowing, seemed obedient to her; she wore armor and her countenance, although obscured by wrapping, was fearsome.

The third boat sliced around the rock in the other direction, cutting behind them. It also carried two men, armed with swords—they were surrounded.

Standing, the pirate woman faced Sakaki.

"What's that?" she said, in a loud and masculine voice. "I think I just heard you say you weren't afraid of anything!"

Sakaki looked at her. The sun was at her back, shining into the pirate's eyes.

"Then I guess it's time," the pirate went on, "for the dread pirate _Fujiko_ to teach you something about the true meaning of fear! Aint that right, boys?"

The tattooed rower behind her growled; those in other boats brandished their weapons.

"P-please!" said Chiyo. "We have nothing of value, nothing at all…!"

Fujiko smiled. "Is that so? Then I guess we'll just have to kill you for the fun of it!—But hands off that woman, boys, she's mine."

Sakaki had narrowed her eyes. Now, hesitantly, and sounding incredulous, she spoke:

"…Lady Takino?"

A howl erupted from the dread pirate Fujiko. She tore the wrapping away from her mouth and threw it into the water, and the angry young face of Tomonosuke Takino confronted them.

"Fine, if that's how you want it!" she yelled. "Sakaki!—You and I have unfinished business!"

Sakaki slightly lowered her head. "Very well. But, was it really necessary to bring along all these others...?"

"They're here to make sure you don't try an' pull anything!" said Tomonosuke.

_I'm not sure that's really the reason_, Chiyo thought.

Sakaki's eyes moved from one side to the other—she had yet to take a stance, and her body was loose and supple.

"I wish not to fight you," she said. "You know this. However, should you insist, I cannot honorably refuse. You realize that this means your death?"

"Huh, big talk! Alright, let's finish this!"

"You sound as if we've been rivals a long time," added Sakaki, sounding confused. "I'm still not even sure how I offended you…"

"Shut up! Now show me what you've got!"

Although it was not her favored weapon, Tomonosuke held her crescent-bladed lance with confidence. As their boats drew closer together, and they drew level with each other, Sakaki took her own stance.

From behind them came another voice, the rifleman in the first boat: "_Yarijutsu_ with an oar? I got to admit, lady, you got a mile of guts!"

Tomonosuke's stance was low, her feet spread wide. As she drew completely level with Sakaki, she struck a downward blow of incredible force. Sakaki, standing easily with her feet close together, did not seem to have balance; but she made a jab with her oar and caught Tomonosuke's lance just below the head. The check sent the force of the blow back down the haft, and Tomonosuke staggered; the boat shook underneath her. She had already prepared her second strike—but Sakaki was no longer in front of her.

Chiyo gasped. The men in the other boats swore. The moment she had deflected Tomonosuke's lance, Sakaki had jumped up into the air like a dolphin, for a moment a black shape against the sun, and turned completely head-over-heels. By the time the swordsmen in the third boat realized she was hurtling toward them, it was all one of them could do to dive out of the way—straight into the river. As he sent up gouts of water that filled the boat, Sakaki landed in his place and with the haft of her oar struck down the other man's sword, then judged a blow at the side of his head with the paddle. He followed his companion over the side, and without a pause Sakaki thrust the oar in the water and began to row away.

Tomonosuke aimed her lance. "You idiots, _after her_!"

As Sakaki had instructed, Chiyo tried to keep herself low in the boat, peering out over the side. Now she saw that while Tomonosuke's rower obediently took her in pursuit of Sakaki, moving out from between the rocks into the open river, the first boat remained beside their own. In it, the rifleman took aim.

Tomonosuke had given no order, and couldn't even see him, but nonetheless he aimed his gun at Sakaki's distant figure. His companion was smirking.

Steeling herself, Chiyo stood. She gripped the remaining oar and send the scull flying into the rifleman's boat. As the man tottered, screaming a curse, and began to turn, she grabbed Sakaki's sword from the prow and swung it with all her might at his waist.

The rifleman went into the river, drenching both Chiyo and his companion. The other man, turning, glowered down at Chiyo.

"Well, well. What's this!"

He seized her by her hair and pulled her up. In between his wrappings he had enormous, bushy black eyebrows, and his sword was in his hand.

"You want to lose your head, little girl?—Eh?"

Although her eyes were beginning to water, Chiyo glared back at him.

"Don't think I wont kill a kid!"

"A s-samurai…" stuttered Chiyo. "_A true samurai isn't afraid to die_!"

"She's right," came a soft voice at the man's shoulder.

As he turned his head, the flat of Sakaki's oar collided with it and sent him flying. Chiyo landed on her feet in the scull.

"Are you alright?"

Still paddling the stolen boat, Sakaki had pulled alongside. Chiyo grinned broadly and nodded.

Sakaki had led Tomonosuke's boat out into the river, where the tide had caught it; then circled back. It now appeared that Tomonosuke, disgusted with her rower, had heaved him out of the boat, and was now pushing toward them herself with furious strokes of the oars. The thugs and _yakuza_ floundered in the water, trying to climb out of their piecemeal armor before it drowned them and swim for land.

One of the swordsmen who had fallen from the first boat now clawed at Tomonosuke's stern, wailing: "H-help me, _anesan_, I c-can't swim—!"

Beating his hands away with the oars, she yelled back: "No better time to learn, then!"

Sakaki stepped from her boat to that recently vacated by the rifleman and his friend. Its prow was already pointed at Tomonosuke, and she pushed off from the other boat toward them. All the boats trembled frantically from the motion of the water in the constricted space.

Tomonosuke stood as Sakaki neared. In an instant, she gripped the lance again. The two boats drifted.

The sea was still bright, the sky a deep, celestial blue.

Tomonosuke straddled the boats, one foot in her own, one in Sakaki's. The viscous swipe of the crescent-bladed lance cut the air as Sakaki ducked, but Tomonosuke, shaking the boats with her legs, managed to knock her off-balance and prevent her attack. Neither of them seemed completely at ease without solid ground beneath them. Then they both struck, and their weapons met in the center, the deadly blade inches from Sakaki's face; but striking further would open Tomonosuke's guard. They stood with no tension in their arms, the hafts of the weapons touching.

The boats shored up against one rock, and Tomonosuke took advantage to strike—a series of blows followed so thick and desperate that even Sakaki visibly strained, and seemed to be putting all of her soul into each blow, and grunted as the weapons collided. They both writhed and twisted, pulling their power out of their hips and legs; the haft of the oar glanced off the blade of the lance, the haft of the lance brushed against Sakaki's side. Chiyo, watching, strained to the point of breaking.

Tomonosuke screamed as they fought, her voice rising and falling with the rhythm of her attack. She finally stepped completely into Sakaki's boat, and as she did so swung the lance around in a powerful circle. The noise exploded over the water. Sakaki leaned so far back in an instant that Chiyo could not believe she didn't collapse, and the screaming head of the lance passed over her face. She straightened, but Tomonosuke's attack continued and the lance spun around a second time.

Sakaki didn't try to dodge. The lance flew at her shoulder with enough force to knock her out of the boat, into the water where Tomonosuke could skewer her like a fish, and insanely she seemed to turn her back.

The lance struck her as she turned. It glanced off her shoulder, sliding past her, and flew off into empty air, and she turned Sakaki brought the oar in front of her stomach and sent its butt-end at Tomonosuke. It struck the middle of her chest with an audible crack.

The lance clattered down in the boat, a minute later the oar fell after it. Sakaki stood clutching her shoulder with one hand; although, by spinning, she had shifted the energy of the blow, it had still been potent.

Tomonosuke lay in the stern, he head on the gunwale. Her chest was heaving.

The boats still drifted.

"I lost," said Tomonosuke, looking at the sky.

Sakaki said nothing.

"Must be because…I didn't eat breakfast…"

The waves lapped the sides of the boat.

"Hey," said Tomonosuke. "Do me…one favor. When you fight that Kagura lady…try not to lose. At least then…" She shut her eyes, and her lips formed a faint smile. "Yomi and me won't have been beaten by some nobody."

"Takino-san…" said Chiyo.

Sakaki nodded.

Seeing that most of Tomonosuke's attendants seemed to have reached the small islands, and were clinging to them, she stepped back into her own boat and began to row away.

Later, she would say that her fight against Tomonosuke had been among the most difficult of her life—if only because she had been determined not to kill her opponent.

* * *

It was about two hours past noon when the scull came within sight of Okishima, its green bamboo shining from a distance. It was, besides, impossible to miss the standard of the house of Tanizaki—a red banner with a golden rooster—flying on the hill at the south of the island. Sakaki approached from the east, where a wide, sandy beach made for easy landing, and as they neared, they saw that two slightly larger boats—the same size as those Tomonosuke had employed—were moored behind a large rock. 

Okishima was flat, and had yielding appearance. There were few rocks; the hill was a gentle swell of grass. Even the tall, proud stalks of bamboo looked as if they would give way to the slightest wind.

The day had become very quiet—there were not even birds. Neither were there many clouds in the sky. The temperature had again taken a warmer turn.

As the boat drifted into the shallows, a figure, a vivid red, broke from the bamboo on their right and streaked across the beach toward them. Kagura moved like a tiger that had left its cover. Seeing her, Chiyo became immobile with terror—although Kagura had yet to draw her swords, her very presence was a drawn sword.

Sakaki stood up in the prow of the boat, her sword in her hand. The keel of the boat scraped bottom. Kagura ran in front of them, kicking up sand as if to create a wall around them, and stood hard by on their left at the water's edge.

Her face was angry. "Sakaki! What's the big idea, showing up late? Is that your idea of playing fair?"

Sakaki faced her calmly. "Forgive me. This delay was not my intention."

"Hmph."

The surf licked Kagura's ankles. Now that the boat was grounded, she stood directly on Sakaki's left.

"You ready?" she said. "Don't think I'm gonna let you catch your breath."

"One moment," said Sakaki. She held out her wooden sword, and Chiyo took it. Then she loosened her white headband, gathered up her hair and tied it back in one plume.

Kagura waited, breathing heavily. Sakaki took up her sword again. Her expression was pitying.

"You've lost," she said.

"What!"

"Your composure is gone. You've lost heart."

Kagura put her hand on her long sword. "Come on!"

Sakaki stepped out of the boat, putting her dark clog on the white sand. Turning to Chiyo, she smiled. "Farewell…I'll be back shortly."

Kagura's bare swords sparked as she drew them. She stood close enough to kill Sakaki in one lunge, the moment she set both her feet on land.

Sakaki looked at her. Kagura's stance was mobile; her sword posture fluid. She had recovered her breathing. For a moment Sakaki doubted. Something had happened. It was difficult to say how, but in the course of only several duels, Kagura had become a better swordswoman.

Chiyo huddled inside the boat. With her hands clasped together, she muttered: "_Namu amida butsu. Namu amida butsu. Namu…_"

* * *

On the seat of the hill, folding chairs were established. Lord Yukari sat beneath her standard, not lounging as usual, but upright and attentive. Her two guards stood behind her. Kurosawa, Kimura, Chihiro, and the herald Chiba sat with her; the sea breeze moved around them. 

"It's kind of funny," she whispered to Kurosawa, over the sighing of the breeze. "The heads of all the big schools get knocked out, and now we've got these two no-names."

Kurosawa nodded. "However, there is some difference. I've studied Sakaki…and it seems clear to me that she must have military experience. I believe that Hozoin lancer, Inshun, made a similar observation; although at the time I assumed he was referring only to duels. Therefore, it could be said that the difference between Kagura and Sakaki is between experience and raw talent…"

"I don't think Miss Kagura is exactly inexperienced," said Chihiro.

"That's true. But I don't think that, among other things, she truly understands what it is to kill a human being—or at least," she added, "she didn't until recently."

Kimura sighed. "Why have men, since of old," he pondered, "sought to throw their lives away in vain contests? This truly is a question for the sages."

Shading her eyes, Chihiro said: "There they go…"

Sakaki bounded out of the scull and up the beach, and Kagura pursued her. She had not hesitated for a moment after she began moving, and although Kagura ran after her, she did not seem to be running _away_.

Why did it all feel so much like a dream? In the balmy air, there was no force, no tension at all. Only to the combatants must the combat have been serious.

* * *

Kagura watched Sakaki's retreating figure. Simply from observing her in motion, it was possible to learn a great deal about her style. She saw that while Sakaki believed—no doubt correctly—that she was not fast enough to overtake her, that even if she did, Sakaki was prepared at a moment's notice to turn and fight. She knew that Sakaki's sword-strokes must be as clean and fast as her strides, and even behind her she did not feel entirely safe. 

Thinking in the heat of combat had never been Kagura's strongest suit, although, unlike Tomonosuke, she did not pride herself in relying solely on instinct. She knew that instinct and skill alone would not be sufficient to overcome Sakaki—never having seen her opponent fight, she needed some understanding of her, and she was not so foolish as to underestimate her.

Sakaki was heading for the shadows of the bamboo grove. For a moment Kagura thought she was gaining; then she realized Sakaki had deliberately slowed, allowing her to catch up. She meant to strike her down the moment she did. Instead Kagura veered to her left, keeping at least ten paces between her and her adversary even as they drew level.

They faced each other. Instead of running, Sakaki had begun to move sideways with a floating step, and Kagura followed suit. They moved parallel to each other, through the stalks of bamboo. The grove was quiet, the air slightly damp. The ground had turned to a mix of sand and rich dirt underneath them.

Sakaki held her sword low, it seemed carelessly, in one hand. Kagura held her long sword in front of her, the short sword at her side. Both their eyes probed each other, searching out weaknesses.

Kagura saw none. Sakaki appeared to hold her sword carelessly because her sword was in her entire body. Or rather, perhaps it wasn't even in her body at all. If it had been concentrated somewhere, it would have been possible to react to it…but there was nothing.

It was like her experience of the Kurosawa style. But the difference between Kaori's and Sakaki's style was the difference between the illusion of emptiness and emptiness itself.

At the same time Kagura knew how she must appear to Sakaki: like a straw dummy with targets pasted all over it. Her two swords had always made her feel safe, like a shield protecting her whole body, but now they seemed like the two thin strips of steel they were. There were so many openings in her defense she couldn't begin to count them.

Kagura was not yet afraid. They were still running—the crucial point was yet to come. But soon they would reach the far side of the island, and then, if not before, the point would come. Caught up in the sensation of floating, hypnotized by the grace of Sakaki's movement, it would be all to easy to miss it…the only moment in which victory was possible. She knew that her fear was mounting, and that she would lose heart before they reached the crucial moment. Sakaki had won. All that was left was for the cat to pounce on the rat.

Abandoning herself to this realization, Kagura let her mind float. She no longer felt the swords gripped in her hands, or the ground beneath her feat. First came the sensation of the sky spreading over her—for a moment her mind rose up and was in the sky, and felt the world around her, from the ground to the gentle stalks of bamboo, to the waves lapping the shore. Was Sakaki's mind floating somewhere in this same space? What _was_ her opponent? For a moment she became dizzy, although her feet continued to strike the ground as surely as ever. She realized that, while she had believed all thoughts but those of combat had been pushed out of her mind, this was not really the case—the same thoughts as always were clamoring, about herself, the world, the gods and the Buddha, and there was nothing she could do to silence them. She was at the mercy of her thoughts, not the other way around. All she could hope to do was gradually float above them to a place where these questions were resolved.

Then Kagura understood the Kamineko style. In the end, it was nothing but speed: speed that came from absolute presence of mind. It wasn't a question of methods of attack or defense; if she attacked, Sakaki would strike her first, and if Sakaki struck, her own blow would never reach Sakaki. It simply wasn't possible. Letting this knowledge pass through it without reacting, her mind drifted back into her body as she and Sakaki cleared the bamboo forest on the other side of island and Sakaki checked herself with the heel of one foot, even as she struck.

To what can the speed of the Kamineko style be compared? Less than a blow from a cat's paw, it is more like the careless swishing of a cat's tail; or again, like a thought that moves through the brain before one even has time to "think;" or again…

Kagura caught the blow between her two crossed swords. There was hardly any sound as the wood met metal. Sakaki's sword vanished and in the same moment flew at Kagura's head from the left, and Kagura's short sword, still raised to block, swept sideways and struck it in the precise same place as the first block.

Sakaki jumped. She flew through the air as far back as twenty paces. Any attack of Kagura's, no matter how fast, would have missed her entirely, but Kagura had made no attack.

They faced each other with the sea now rising and falling on Kagura's left, Sakaki's right. Kagura kept a sideways stance, her long sword in front of her, her short sword raised over her head. Every part of her body was trembling violently.

A small dark object flew through the air.

Sakaki held her sword in front of her. Slightly less than half its length had been clipped off, and now rolled down the sand toward the water. Her face betrayed surprise. Slowly she lowered what remained. Then she cast it into the bamboo grove.

Still Kagura didn't relax her stance.

"The victory is yours," said Sakaki. "I surrender."

Only then did Kagura sheathe her swords.

The cries of the onlookers were audible from where they stood.

Kagura would later say that if, as she sometimes fancied, the gods gave everyone a certain supply of vital energy at their birth, she had exhausted fully half of her own supply in that moment—taking away half her life.

Sakaki knelt, but not before Kagura herself collapsed, letting go of her swords, falling panting on the beach. Sakaki's posture was dignified. Kagura continued to gasp until she was almost retching. When she seemed to have recovered herself a little, Sakaki spoke, with lowered eyes:

"Thank you."

Kagura stared at her.

"Perhaps," said Sakaki, "you feel the same. For one such as you or me—to meet a swordsman of similar ability—is truly rare. And for that, I thank you."

"Heh." Kagura had recovered herself enough to smile. "No problem."

"Now…" Sakaki's eyes drifted toward the sea. Her voice held a deep melancholy. "As one warrior to another…would you do me one favor?"

Kagura got to her feet. "Sure. Anything."

"Please kill me," said Sakaki.

"—What?"

"Please end my life."

Kagura looked down at her, incredulous. Did her honor really mean that much? "But…" she started, weakly. "It's just a tournament. There's no way I could—"

"I ask you," said Sakaki.

"No way," said Kagura, before she could even think. The thought of killing Sakaki was absurd—not when she was just kneeling there. "Is it just because you lost?"

Sakaki hesitated, then shook her head. "Rather than take my life, you disarmed me. But when you struck, you struck as if to kill. I only ask that you finish the blow."

"I…" said Kagura. "I don't want to. I want you to live. I mean—we're rivals! We'll meet again, won't we?"

Sakaki smiled. "Not in this world."

"What d'you mean by…don't tell me you're gonna kill yourself!"

At that, Sakaki stood. As if coming to a decision, she smiled at Kagura, although it seemed forced.

"Very well. If that is your judgment, then as the vanquished, I must submit."

"I want you to live…" Kagura repeated, clumsily. "There's so much we have to talk about…and teach each other. I bet we could teach each other a lot. You know I never had any real training. I-I'd even be your student, if you let me! And, then there's that girl…"

A shadow crossed Sakaki's face; she said nothing else.

"Let's go."

"You've got to promise me you won't kill yourself," said Kagura, with a sort of girlish seriousness.

Sakaki smiled. "I promise."

Kagura still seemed troubled, but turned away. Leaving her swords where they had fallen, she began to walk away, down the beach. Sakaki looked after her.

Kagura stood by the water's edge. For a moment she looked out and was silent, her legs spread out, her hands at her sides. Then she filled her lungs with the pungent river air, and as if all creation existed only to attend her, she threw her cry at the heavens:

"_Victory_!

"_Victory_!

"_Vic—to—ry_!"

* * *

"—and therefore, in recognition of her outstanding achievements in swordsmanship, her triumph in a number of adverse conditions, and her final upset victory against a swordsman many considered her better, I, Momota Chiba, retainer of the House of Tanizaki, and acting steward of Her Ladyship Tanizaki Yukari, Lord Magistrate of all Kyoto, hereby convey upon Kagura—err—" 

Momota Chiba, once the tournament's herald, wore a pair of small spectacles on his nose as he read from a scroll. As he reached this point in his address, he turned to the woman sitting next to him, the retired sword instructor Kurosawa.

"There doesn't seem to be a family name," he whispered.

"Kurosawa," said Kurosawa.

"Eh?"

"Her name is Kagura Kurosawa," she repeated. "That is—if she agrees."

On the raised platform called the seat of honor, Lord Yukari sat on her throne. In front of her kneeled Chiba, Kurosawa and the chief of Yukari's guards, a man named Kageyo. Before them, facing them, kneeled Kagura. At this she looked up, and met Kurosawa's eyes.

Kurosawa smiled.

"I do agree," muttered Kagura.

Clearing his throat, Chiba continued. "Very well, Kurosawa Kagura. I bestow upon you the post of sword instructor to the House of Tanizaki, with the title of Viscount, and a per annum salary of ninety _ryo_. Kurosawa Kagura, do you accept this offer?"

"I do accept it."

"And do you swear to serve Her Ladyship Tanizaki Yukari to the best of your ability, while you remain a servant of this house?"

"I do swear."

Chiba smiled. "Then place your signature here."

Motioning Kagura forward, he presented her with the parchment and a brush. Lacking her own seal for the moment, she could only scrawl a rough version of her name; but seeing the letters there, she felt a great fondness for her own penmanship.

"My Lord?"

Grinning, Lord Yukari applied her seal to the document.

"Viscount Kagura, rise!" she said heartily. "Heh. With a killer like you on our side, we won't have to worry about _anything_!—Say, why don't we go drinking tonight?"

"_Yukari_," Kurosawa whispered.

The Lord Magistrate coughed. "Anyway, I hope you do honor to all the great traditions of this house, and all that. So…right."

"Congratulations, Miss Kagura," Chiba said warmly.

"Congratulations, Viscount Kagura," rumbled the chief of the guards, Kageyo.

"Congratulations," said Minamo Kurosawa.

Behind Kagura were seated a number of persons. They had also been summoned there that day, and while some had come gladly, others had only been lured by the promise of money. In any case, they were first witness to this ceremony.

The Hozoin lancer, Inshun, smiled. "This one offers you his humble congratulations, Miss Kurosawa Kagura."

The head of the Mizuhara school, Oyama, smirked. "Congratulations."

"Congratulations, Miss Kagura," said Chihiro, there in place of her master.

"Hmph. Congratulations, or something," said Tomonosuke.

Shishido Baiken mumbled something indistinct.

With a wide, dazzling smile, Ayumu Kasuga said: "Congrats, Kagura-dono! I always knew ya had it in you!"

At that, Kagura couldn't help but turn. Answering Ayumu's smile, she reached into her collar and removed the roast chestnut, holding it up. Just as the Zen lineage is said to have begun when the Buddha, holding up a flower, smiled, and a single disciple returned his smile, no one could guess the meaning of this transaction; but Kagura said:

"Thank you—_sensei_."

Sakaki, last of all, bowed her head. "Congratulations."

Momota Chiba clapped his hands. "As for the rest of you, for your difficulties, you are each to be awarded the sum of ten _ryo_—for Miss Kaori, twenty _ryo_, and for Miss Sakaki, the sum of thirty _ryo_."

"You are most generous," said Oyama, grudgingly.

"The Kurosawa school extends its thanks," said Chihiro.

"Then, without delay, I will now distribute—"

Footsteps outside. The Lord Magistrate, looking up, blinked angrily: "Who's there?"

The guard captain's face was confusion. "I gave explicit orders that the compound be locked down, My Lord."

Chiba, frowning, got to his feet; he put his hand on his sword. The sound in the corridor was of a great many feet, moving rapidly in their direction, with no attempt at stealth.

"Honestly, Yukari," Kurosawa muttered, "what have I always told you about making enemies?"

"This one's not my fault," said Lord Yukari, "I swear! But—I'm the Lord Magistrate! Who'd dare to—"

"This wouldn't be _your_ doin' Oyama-kun?" said Ayumu, glancing sideways at him.

He shook his head, appearing as confused as the others.

"Fear not, Your Ladyship," said Chiba. Kageyo was also on his feet. Their guests, however, for all their collective skill, were unarmed; even Kagura. The two treasured blades they had been meaning to present to her, as a further prize, were still in their storehouse.

The doors of the inner sanctum opened. The first to stumble through was of Kageyo's guards, babbling:

"Captain, I couldn't stop them! T-they're from the—"

"_I don't give a damn where they're from_!" screamed Yukari. Standing at her full height, she held her three-_ryo_ fan imperiously in front of her. "I get my authority directly from the shogun himself!"

Behind the guard, a samurai appeared wearing quiet colors. His appearance was like a whisper. His face was young, with a thin beard, the flesh around his eyes wrinkled with smile-lines, his eyes seemed soft and weak.

He bowed to the Lord Magistrate. "Forgive our intrusion," he said. "However—we, also, receive our authority directly from the shogun. Allow me to present myself—" Then he produced a box with the Tokugawa seal. "Kagetoki Kariya, guard captain to His Lordship Tokugawa Ieyasu. I and my men have come to apprehend a fugitive."

"A f-f-f-_fug_—" Lord Yukari sputtered. "Kage…maru…hoki…are you accusing me of harboring _fugitives_?"

"Forgive me, Your Ladyship, that is not the case. No doubt you, yourself, had no idea of the deception practiced on you. If you knew all, you would join me in righteous indignation against this enemy of the state, who has now added deception to her long list of misdeeds."

He began to walk forward, and grim-faced, sword-bearing samurai followed him, all bearing the crest of the Tokugawa _bakufu_. There were at least thirty of them, others remaining outside in the corridor; some armed with lances, a few even with rifles.

Every pair of eyes frantically met every other pair: who among them was a spy and traitor so dangerous that such a force was required to apprehend them? Tomonosuke was about to point an accusing finger at Oyama—when Kariya stopped behind his target.

"I hear you've taken to calling yourself Sakaki," he said. "How quaint—my dear Lady Sakura Kakizaki."

"I-If you want to keep on making these _outrageous_ accusations," seethed Yukari, "come back with documents of arrest!"

"Oh, said Kariya, "but we have the documents. Everything is in order. However, we simply can't allow this dangerous woman another hour of freedom."

"_Oi_!" said Kagura. "_Dangerous woman_? Sakaki's not some 'dangerous woman,' she's—my friend!"

"Oh, I'm afraid there can be no mistake. Perhaps Lady Kakizaki…had deceived you, not only as to her true name, but as to her true nature. However at the Battle of Sekigahara, fighting on the side of the traitors Ishida and Hidenori, this fiend in human form slew as many as thirty-nine samurai—single-handedly! For years she vanished. But now it would seem that she's reared her head again, and for what conceivable purpose but to act as a spy for Hidenori?"

Kagura looked at her. "Sakaki?"

Sakaki's expression had been even from the moment Kariya entered. She didn't meet Kagura's eyes.

"Sakaki!" Kagura tried to laugh. "You tell him what total nonsense _that_ is—come on!"

"Yes, Miss Sakaki," chimed in Kurosawa, "please defend yourself against these absurd charges!"

Sakaki whispered:

"Everyone…"

Every eye in the room fixed on her.

"Everyone…I'm sorry."

She got to her feet. Kariya drew back, his hand straying toward his swords, but she faced him and said:

"Kariya-san. Please, don't malign me. I had no intention of evading you. I had only hoped—that is, by searching out a strong opponent, I had hoped to end my life in honorable contest against a fellow samurai. But as I find the gods will not fulfill my wish…I will accompany you."

Kagura leapt up. "Sakaki, don't go with this loser!—Cut him in half!"

Kariya's eye turned on her, and for a moment all his mildness disappeared. "Making a threat against an officer of the shogunate will hardly go well with you, My Lady. And as for you, Lord Magistrate—" he added, observing that Lord Yukari was squirming, searching for some objection—"it would appear that, as they say, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. I was always surprised that Ieyasu was willing to trust you after the treachery of your father and brothers. I would certainly hope that his trust in you was not misplaced."

Lord Yukari muttered something under her breath; but she lowered her eyes.

Tomonosuke, Inshun and others were also standing.

"I'm with that knucklehead!" said Tomonosuke, pointing at Kagura. "We can't just let you goons drag Sakaki out of here—she's one of us!"

"Please," said Sakaki, sounding pained. "This man is Kagetoki Kariya—called the Hand of the Gods. I myself would hesitate to face him alone…"

"I'm glad you display such sagacity, Lady Kakizaki. If only we could have met on the field of Sekigahara, I would have gladly granted your wish to die an honorable death—but such wasn't meant to be, it seems. Men! Bind her hands."

"Come _on_!" yelled Kagura. "At least there's no need for _that_—!"

Kurosawa put a hand on her shoulder. "Sakaki's right," she said. "There's nothing any of us can do."

Sakaki allowed a guard to tie her hands behind her back—but as he did so, she looked at Kariya. "I have one more thing to say to you. You call me a traitor because I served my lord, as is a samurai's life…but if Hidenori had won, and not Ieyasu, it is _you_ who would be the traitor."

"Empty words," said Kariya. "It was the will of Heaven that Ieyasu should rule. Remove her!"

The soldiers closed in around Sakaki. Kagura stepped forward, and Kurosawa held her back forcefully. It seemed as if the Lord Magistrate would explode from the force of her pent-in anger, and Momota Chiba was also scowling. But no one made any move as they led Sakaki out of the hall, into the corridor, and away. Only after the sound of their heavy footsteps had long retreated did the Lord Magistrate let out a terrifying scream of rage, and Kagura fall to the ground, dizzied by the sudden transformation of the most sublime moment of her life into one of its most terrible.

* * *

AN: _Next up: Sakaki dies! Thanks for reading!_


	14. The Wrath of Heaven

14. The Wrath of Heaven

In the garden of Minamo Kurosawa's home, she and her eight guests sat on the white gravel in a circle. The weather had taken its last turn toward winter: they all wore coats, and would have preferred to sit by the fire, but there was not enough room inside the cottage.

"I hate this," said Tomonosuke.

"Silence! If I'd known I was going to be in for your interminable complaints, I never would have agreed to come here."

Koyomi Mizuhara was dignified in a pure black kimono and jacket, her left hand resting on her knee. Oyama kneeled beside her.

"But _Yo_mi," whined Tomonosuke, in a tone quite unfamiliar to the others present, "that _bakufu_ asshole…"

"I know all about it! That's why we're here today—to draw up a plan. And your bellyaching isn't helping matters. Now…"

She turned to the others assembled. Sitting opposite her were Inshun and Baiken; on right, the priest Ayumu and Tomonosuke; on the left, Chihiro, and Kurosawa herself. Kagura stood outside the circle, leaning against a dwarf pine tree.

Koyomi shut her eyes and cleared her throat. As she did so, Tomonosuke briefly but perceptibly rolled her eyes.

"Your friend Sakaki," Koyomi began, "is being held in a military outpost roughly a quarter mile outside the city. It is my belief that this man, Kariya, will prefer to execute her soon—to transport her back to Edo alive, given her fighting prowess, would be too dangerous, and he can always bring her head to present to Ieyasu…a far lighter trophy."

Kagura shuddered.

"Yet," she went on, "given the samurai's fondness for ritual and propriety—even in a dog of the shogunate—I doubt he'll simply chop off her head at the first opportunity. That it gives us one day, perhaps several at most, to mount our operation."

In spite of his faith in her, Oyama was cautious. "You say _operation_," he said, "but what can the nine of us do? Surely we're not going to walk in there and take on the arm of the shogunate."

"He said that she served a lord loyal to Hideyori," said Chihiro. "Why don't we appeal to Osaka for help?"

"That'd take too long," growled Kagura. "She'd be dead by then."

"And besides," said Koyomi, "Hideyori has to build his strength if he ever wants to take on Ieyasu again. He can't risk starting another war over one woman's life, no matter how loyal a vassal, or great a fighter, she might have been. Personally, I don't care which one of them wins in the long run—but we have to understand his position."

"Alright," said Oyama. "But if Hideyori, with all his soldiers and all the gold in Osaka castle, doesn't stand a chance against Ieyasu and Edo, surely _we_…?"

"She speaks the truth," said Inshun. "Although I see that your cause is noble, if you take up arms against the shogunate, you will surely fall. The grass bends against the strong wind—this is the way of things."

"Don't be so hasty," said Koyomi. "A strategist doesn't get flustered by appearances. According to our intelligence—" she cast a look at Oyama, who seemed to color—"the outpost is manned by sixty men. That number includes fifteen riflemen, Kariya himself—famed in Edo as the "Hand of the Gods," a master of the quick draw—and a sword instructor of the House of Yagyu, another formidable opponent. Yet, having carefully weighed the odds, I believe that each of you—as much as it pains me, I must exclude myself—would prove a match for at least six or seven of the shogunate's men. And, while I know this Kariya only by reputation, it seems that one or two of our number would prove more than a match for him. With the advantage of surprise, it is my sincere believe that we could overcome them."

"—but it's not just them that we're fighting!" broke in Oyama. "Sensei, surely you understand. By defying Kariya, we defy Ieyasu himself—and every _daimyo_, ever soldier at his command!"

Tomonosuke's eyes lit up. As if inspired, she said: "That's why we have to wipe them out—every last one of 'em. It'll look like lightning struck, and they won't know who to blame. Right, Yomi? It's _tenchu_—Heaven's Death Penalty."

She spoke with unusual gravity.

"That is correct," said Koyomi. "_Tenchu_. If we strike as the wrath of heaven, we may succeed. But are you all resolved in this course? I must admit, I find it striking that so many of you, who had known this woman such a brief time, would be willing to risk your life on her behalf—and risk it you surely will."

"Who cares about Sakaki!" said Tomonosuke. "I just can't stand it when stuff like this happens! It makes me mad, that's all. No one should get away with acting like that, even if it's the shogun himself.—That's what _I_ say!"

"For certain reasons of my own," said Chihiro, looking away, "I believe that Master Kaori…would have wished me to make very attempt to save this Sakaki's life."

Ayumu seemed to start out of a daze. "Who—wuh?" Then she smiled. "Oh, I'd like to get out of the city. Don't care much for all these crowds. Besides, it's been a while since I got some decent exercise."

Beside her Baiken, whose jaw was still bandaged shut, had apparently prepared a written message ahead of time. Looking as if he would scowl if he could, he handed it to Inshun, who read aloud:

"'I'm always ready to cut down some shogunate pigs—giving an honest man a hard time.'—I myself," said Inshun, "agree with the justice of your cause. While my abbot may object, I see no reason why he should find out about it. I truly believe you are doing Heaven's will—and so this one, too, will stand with you."

Oyama shrugged. "If the rest of you are all going on this suicide mission, I couldn't very well save face if I refused," he muttered, although it seemed likely that he meant more than he said.

There was a moment of silence.

"What about you, sensei?" said Kagura.

"What about _you_, Kagura-dono?" said Ayumu.

"What?—Of course I'm going. I'm going, and that's all there is. But sensei…we're just a pack of stray dogs and lone wolves. None of us has much to hold onto in this world—that is, either we started out that way, or we are now. But you've got your husband—and your reputation. Are you really sure…?"

With her eyes half-shut, Kurosawa smiled.

"I'm afraid an old woman like myself wouldn't be of much use to you in any case. But I, like our friend Inshun, agree with the justice of your cause—and in my view, far more than merely serving a lord, or clinging blindly to personal honor, it is the duty of the true swordsman to right injustice. Whether Hideyori or Ieyasu, any ruler who behaves in such a fashion deserves no honest man's allegiance.

"I will assist Lady Koyomi in drawing up our plans—and whatever assistance you might require, financial or practical, my household stands at your disposal. Lady Yukari, I am afraid, is watched too closely to render such assistance; though all the same I know that her heart is with us."

Ayumu suddenly spoke up: "Well, that settles it! If we're seven samurai, directed by Kurosawa, we're sure to win!"

Tomonosuke looked at her askance. "Is that some kind of joke? I don't get it."

"Besides," observed Chihiro, "we aren't all samurai, are we?"

"Aw, yer no good."

* * *

Leaving the group of strategists—tactics had, of course, never been her preference, and Tomonosuke only remained because she seemed to enjoy needling Koyomi—Kagura wandered off between the pines. After yesterday's warmth, the mountain air was bitterly cold. She headed toward Kurosawa's cottage. 

Was that all it meant to be a samurai? Why would somebody as strong as Sakaki just roll over when someone like Kariya snapped his fingers? Wasn't it more important to stay alive, no matter what, so you could protect the people you cared about?—And if that were the end of everything wasn't it better, as they intended, to go down fighting rather than submit to the rule of weaklings and cowards?

As she reached the cottage, she realized that Ayumu had come up behind her. The priest's disposition was sunny as ever.

"Oh," said Kagura. "Hey."

"Kagura-dono, I'm real proud of ya."

"Huh?—Why's that?" Her mind felt dull—as heavy, now, as it had become light during her bout with Sakaki. If it were a limb, she wouldn't be able to move it.

Ayumu said something curious, her phrasing suggesting she was paraphrasing another language: "'Greater love than this hath no man—that he lay down his life for his friends.'"

"What's that?"

"I don't know, I heard it from some foreigner in Nagasaki. But it sounds kind of neat, huh?"

"Hey, Osaka," said Kagura. "I got a question. They say there's karma, right?—And whatever you do, if it's good, you'll get good things back; and if it's bad the gods, or the Buddha, or whatever'll punish you. Right?"

Ayumu shrugged. "I guess so. I'm really no expert."

"But you're a priest!"

"Well, there's still a lot of things I don't know, Kagura-dono. One time, I couldn't tell the difference between hashed rice and curry—even after I ate it!"

"Anyway, if that's true. Then why aint the Buddha punishing Kariya, and giving good stuff to Sakaki!"

"Sometimes it takes a real long time to kick in, I guess."

"Isn't that just like saying, whatever happens, happens?"

Ayumu smiled. "You got me," she said.

Kagura pushed her way into the cottage.

Inside was Kurosawa's small bedroom, with its cot, its miniature Buddhist altar, an arrangement of white chrysanthemums in a vase. On the cot facing the wall sat Chiyo, Kimura beside her.

"Oh, hey!" said Kagura. "With everything that's been happening, I guess I lost track of you. Are you—"

As she reached out, Chiyo turned, and Kagura drew back at the sight of a tear-streaked face—that was, two tear-streaked faces.

"It's noble for a samurai to live and die by the sword," said Kimura, "but killing such a beautiful woman—defies all reason!"

"Kagura-san!" wailed Chiyo. "I-is the world…really a wicked place, after all?"

Kagura thought. She sat down on the edge of the bed. For some reason, in spite of the confusion in her own thoughts, it seemed of great importance to offer the girl some answer—and Kimura, for all that he was an adult, seemed in so shape to do so.

Finally she said: "I guess maybe it is. But as long as I'm alive, I can try and do something about it. So the world might be wicked—doesn't mean we have to be." After another moment as Chiyo waited, tears still trickling down her face, she went on: "I guess…maybe there's more to being the strongest…than just _being_ the strongest. I guess Kariya's not evil, but he doesn't care who he serves, so it ends up like this. I bet if it _were_ the other way around, and Sakaki were after him, she wouldn't have been like _that_. So maybe it does make a difference. It's not enough just being strong, you have to know how to—_go away_!"

She turned bright red. Ayumu, standing in the doorway, was beaming.

"I-I didn't want you to hear that!" Kagura sputtered. "Brute strength wins! Yay! I don't need any stupid gods or buddhas; get out of here!"

When Ayumu had vanished Kagura, smiling ruefully, turned back to Chiyo.

"So—right," she finished, weakly. "Even strong like we are, I guess there might not be much we can do. Personally, I'm not sure we can even take on this Kariya—he's got bows and guns. But, we can try. And maybe someone, somewhere, will take some notice of that.—So quit crying, okay?"

She tried to smile. So did Chiyo, but her continued tears rather spoiled the effect.

Kagura managed, however, to hold in her own.

"I know Miss Sakaki isn't afraid," said Chiyo, quietly. "It's not her I'm crying for. I…I know she wouldn't want that. But if the world really _is_ like this…what am I going to tell him?"

_Him_? thought Kagura. Out loud, she said: "Well…anyway, listen. Playtime's over. If you have a home, you oughta go back there."

Chiyo nodded. She made some attempt to dry her eyes on her sleeve.

"That's right," she said. "I will go home."

"That's the spirit," said Kagura. "No need to do something stupid—not like you're _me_ or something."

"I'll go straight home," said Chiyo. "And maybe—maybe I'll still be able to help all of you."

Kagura considered her. "Well," she said skeptically, "don't knock yourself out."

* * *

It dawned still colder the next day. Huge drifts of white mist covered the hills; the sun was obscured behind iron clouds. Their group had left the highroad some distance back, and now huddled in a grove of pines, around their leader—Kagura. 

She hadn't volunteered for the post, but strangely no one, not even Tomonosuke, had volunteered in her place. Those she had assumed regarded her as an upstart, or worse, now looked at her with unconscious respect.

It was an unfamiliar experience, and she found herself at a loss.

"Well," said Tomonosuke tartly. "How about a few words to rally the troops?"

Sitting around her were Baiken, Inshun, Chihiro, Ayumu, Oyama and Tomonosuke—the number of so-called samurai that Ayumu found, for reason, greatly amusing. Baiken brandished his favored _kusarigama_; Inshun's lance, on the ground behind him, was now unwrapped. Chihiro had her sword, Tomonosuke her White Wind; Oyama a short, flat blade along with a number of clay-pot smoke grenades, all procured (it was assumed) from some friend with a knowledge of _ninjutsu_ arts. At Kagura's belt were the two swords given to her by Yukari, in gold lacquer sheaths detailed with sharkskin, wielded previously by her father.

A shame the gift might be going to waste. But perhaps the late Lord Yukari, himself a victim of Ieyasu's erratic purges, might appreciate their mission.

"Well…" she began. The eyes of trained warriors looked calmly back at her. The day was oppressively silent. "Everyone…let's do our best."

"What is this," said Tomonosuke, "some kid's ballgame?"

"Shut up!" hissed Oyama. "That is, if Koyomi were here, I'm certain that's what she would say to you."

"AndI'll take it from her—but not from you!"

"Hey, hey!" said Kagura. Without even thinking, she had put her sheathed sword in between them; and they drew back. "We're all together in this," she said.

A brief silence followed.

"You know," she went on, "if I have to die today—I guess I'll be glad to die with the likes of all you at my back."

"Now, that's more like it!" said Tomonosuke. Then suddenly, she turned again to Oyama, a different look in her eyes. "Hey…" she went on. "Oyama? Since we might die and all…there's something I gotta tell you."

"I'm listening," he said.

"The truth is…" She hesitated, then blurted out: "The truth is I've always been in love with you!"

"_What_!" he choked.

Tomonosuke burst out laughing. "Ha, ha, ha!—I had you going, I really had you going! You should have seen your face…all right!" She stood up. "Let's go!"

First, Kagura shut her eyes. Briefly, grudgingly, she thought: _Alright, Heaven, or whatever god or buddha or spirit is there—we're doing your work, so try to make sure we win, okay?_

They climbed to their feet, although the color had yet to leave Oyama's face.

"The outpost is at the bottom of this hill," said Chihiro, peering through a pine's tangled branches. "Hopefully—" casting a baleful glare over her shoulder—"_someone_ hasn't already given away your position."

"Hey, hey, sister, it's like they say, 'three makes a rowdy bunch'—and there's more than three of us here. So, what's it look like down there?"

She attempted to peer around Chihiro, but Kagura pulled her back. They waited, their breath checked, to hear what she would report.

But for a long time she was silent.

Finally she whispered: "It's empty."

"Empty!" said Kagura. "No—it can't be!"

Before any of the others could hold her, she had broken cover. Chihiro stumbled after her, calling: "Wait!"—others were jerked into motion.

Kagura rushed down the hill. She had seen at a glance that Chihiro was right: there was no standard flying above the outpost, and no trace of human presence.

It was a stockade constructed of wooden spikes, a palisade wall around a smaller, interior complex: a wooden building and several canvas tents. She stood halfway down the hill and stared into its empty courtyard.

The other struggled after her. Baiken made angry noises—"Keep down!" warned Oyama. Kagura, paying them no mind, ran on to the bottom of the hill. She waded on with difficulty through rough-edged, waist-high grass, tugging on her kimono and on the scabbards of her swords.

A wind rushed over the deserted place.

"No use," said Ayumu. "We're too late."

"Don't tell me that!" said Kagura, turning, her eyes on fire. "Don't…tell me…"

She was confronted by her silent allies.

"Very well," came a voice. "One wouldn't want to disappoint."

The tall grass stirred.

Tomonosuke's hands were on her sword, but it was far too late. On all sides of them, in a perfect circle, the noiseless, dead-faced soldiers of the _bakufu_ rose like restless dead. They were elites—a detail Koyomi had neglected to take into consideration. Kariya, one of the shogun's best men, was in turn provided with the best.

A rustle as they drew their swords. Whirling, her hand on her own hilts, Kagura counted fifteen—twenty-five—twenty-seven. Then Kariya himself rose like a serpent in front of her, a large straw hat balanced on his head. The brim fell over his eyes, but through a number of small slits cut into it, he could see her.

"Do you suppose me a fool?" he said. "These tactics do you no credit. Surely no one would object that I should respond in kind."

"A traitor!" yelled Tomonosuke.

Kariya shook his head. "I am afraid no such grandiosity was called for. You were, I'm afraid, simply too predictable."

Kagura's hand was useless on her sword. Her heartbeat had become a clammy, troubling sensation in her chest.

Standing far off, on the side of a nearby hill, ten of Kariya's riflemen stood and had taken aim at them.

"Come on!" said Tomonosuke. "_Tenchu_, _tenchu_!"

Kagura shook her head. "It's useless."

"How pleasing to meet another woman of reason," said Kariya. "Will you plead for your treacherous lives, then?—I know Lady Kakizaki did."

"That's a lie!" said Kagura. "Now I know you're lying. Sakaki would never!"

"Oh, but I'm afraid she did. Her head is in transit to Edo as we speak—I'm sure His Excellency will appreciate the added gift of another seven. He does have a rather morbid love of excess—all in the interests of our nation."

Silence, wind.

"Throw down your weapons," ordered Kariya.

Tomonosuke sputtered. Baiken glowered. Inshun kept a tight grip on his lance.

"Do as he says," said Kagura. "We haven't got any choice."

"But—!"

"Lady Takino, she's right," said Chihiro.

"Hmph. Fine."

Tomonosuke hurled her sword at the ground. Slowly, every one with small or great reluctance, the other followed suit.

Then Kariya glanced around.

"But where did our friend, that young female priest, get off to?"

Immediately he made a motion with his hand: the rifleman on the hill took aim.

"I don't know," said Kagura evenly. "I wasn't watching her."

"If you lie—"

"Boo!"

Kariya spun around, drawing even as he did so. Rumors did not exaggerate—his speed was superhuman, his sword a thin line of light. It quivered, pointed at the unarmed Ayumu Kasuga, standing innocently behind him.

"Where have you been, mendicant!"

Ayumu answered happily: "Oh, I just took a peek down the road back there. Thought I heard something." She seemed immensely pleased with herself. "I saw something interestin'—thought you might want to know about it."

His sword still raised, Kariya narrowed his eyes. "What did you see."

"You feel that?" said Ayumu. "Seems to me, the ground's shakin' something awful!"

They were all still—Ayumu was right. The ground underneath them was trembling, as if either an earthquake were beginning, or a large company of men were traveling down the highroad—from the direction of the outpost, where they would still be hidden behind its wall.

"You want to know who it is?" said Ayumu.

"Speak."

"Aw," she said, then collapsed into giggles. "Y'all wouldn't believe me if I told you!"

"Don't you dare disrespect Captain Kariya!" yelled another soldier, and reached out for her, but she ducked out of his grasp.

"Speak!" repeated Kariya. "Or your life is forfeit, I swear!"

"Well in that case—" said Ayumu.

The trembling intensified; the noise was now plain. No mistaking it, the highroad was clattering and groaning beyond the outpost walls.

"First comes twelve lancers, got up all fancy with livery coats. Then comes the first palanquin—but that's just for some nobody. Then comes another twelve lancers, got up fancier n' the first bunch. Then twenty footman. Then another palanquin, with more gold on it n' you probably ever saw…"

"So it's some noble's procession," said Kariya. "What makes you think it has anything to do with your traitorous hides?"

"Well this here's a pretty big noble," said Ayumu, "and I get the feeling they sure will take an interest."

Kariya's face was set. "You're bluffing."

"See for yourself."

The air was filled with the crash of a gong—small birds shot up from the grass. From around the corner of the outpost appeared first three caparisoned riders, carrying long lances; then another three, then three more. They rode in close file, their bearings regal, their white horses massive and powerful.

Kariya's sword never faltered. Some of his men, however, drew back, and on the hill the riflemen lowered their weapons. Kariya watched the oncoming procession with venom in his eyes, daring fate.

Kagura, for her part, along with her allies to a man, simply appeared confused.

As Ayumu had predicted, the first palanquin came into view. It was a black and gilt affair, and if the next palanquin were truly of finer stuff, it must have been very fine indeed. The procession continued to move past them—though the lancers looked to the left, marking them—and the palanquin passed in front of Kagura's astonished eyes. They saw the crest on the door.

A shape like a lemon, split at each end to form two sets of odd protrusions. From each side of it projected two uneven lines, like snakes. It was a crest every citizen of Kyoto, the Imperial city, knew well.

Kariya sheathed his sword. He, and all his men, dropped to their knees. A moment later their dazed captives followed suit.

The second palanquin came into view, behind its dazzling ranks of soldiers decked in their finery. It stopped—the procession stopped, neatly for all its great size—and stood a stones-throw away from them.

"Most Honored One, Emperor, Son of Heaven," Kariya said into the ground. "To what conceivably do we owe this honor?"

The door of the palanquin before him—the vehicle itself too grand and gilt-laden to look at—remained shut, its occupant silent. Rather, the door of the first palanquin slid open.

Ayumu wore a confident smile. Kagura didn't understand the reason—even if this was the Emperor himself, wasn't he likely to take Kariya's side, if anything? Still she strained her eyes for her first glimpse of a member of the royal family.

Chiyochichi Mihama, while not a cloistered emperor—one who had taken vows and renounced the world—was nonetheless a famous eccentric, rarely glimpsed in public. He was said to have a vigorous dislike of the color red, and it was even whispered that he believed himself to be a cat.

Out of the palanquin bounded Chiyo and stood by the edge of the road.

"See!" she chirped. "I told you I'd bring help!"

Kagura fell backwards as if struck by a blast of wind.

A voice emerged from the second palanquin. To what can it be compared? It was like the wind in the deepest parts of the mountain, or like the voice of a star. Could one even be certain that it belonged to a man?

"Guard Captain Kariya," said the voice. "Stand down."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"These little chickens are all free to go," said Emperor Chiyochichi. "I've taken a liking to them. Bring the one named Kagura forward!"

Kagura trembled violently as Chihiro and Inshun helped her towards the Emperor's palanquin. She felt her heart would explode if the door would open, and she saw his face—but the door remained shut. She would have sworn she could feel a pair of eyes, and no mere human's eyes, scrutinizing her nonetheless.

When the Emperor spoke again, his tone could perhaps be called jovial: "Well, so here you are! First of all, I'd like to thank you for taking such good care of my daughter. if you have any problems, I'm here to listen."

Kagura realized that Chiyo was tugging on her sleeve.

"You see?" said the girl. "It's all right, Miss Kagura, it's all right! I told him what a good person you were—and about Miss Sakaki, too! My daddy's the greatest."

"So," said the Emperor. "Got any _other_ problems?"

"Chiyo-chan…" muttered Kagura.

Then she collapsed in the road, unconscious.

* * *

Tomonosuke took the lead as she, Chihiro and Oyama rushed through the center of the outpost. It did indeed prove deserted, though it was now apparent that Kariya's soldiers had only briefly left their posts. Spying a wooden building that looked as if it could serve as a jail cell, she took a sharp turn—Chihiro and Oyama followed. 

They rounded the corner to see Tomonosuke standing disconsolate in front of an open door.

"What is it!" gasped Chihiro.

"What's wrong!" demanded Oyama.

Tomonosuke turned, her face blank.

"No use," she said. "We _are_ too late."

Chihiro broke into a dead sprint. She skidded into the doorway, only to face a sight that brought her to her knees—a dirt floor, lying on it Sakaki's severed head.

"Gods," whispered Oyama. "It can't be…"

Then Sakaki, looking at them quizzically, spoke: "I'm very glad to see all of you, but would you mind helping me get out?"

Chihiro blinked; the optical illusion resolved itself. Sakaki was standing shoulder-deep in a hole dug in the ground.

Tomonosuke began to chuckle madly behind them. Chihiro turned and punched her directly in the face.

* * *

What obstacle stands before a friend of the Emperor? What delights are beyond that man's grasp? Before the Son of Heaven, even the shogun—if only out of calculation—bows his head. So long as the demands he makes are not too eccentric, too contrary to the general order, the greatest of lords obey his every whim. 

The shogun claims to rule in his name, although in fact, one might question whether this is really the case. However, there was no question whatever that the death sentence proclaimed from Edo on the head of Lady Sakura Kakizaki, variously Sakaki, for her exploits at Sekigahara in the service of the late Lord Otani Yoshitsugu, was remanded. She, and those named by the Emperor's errant daughter as her friends, were instead treated to a banquet in the Imperial Palace—a rather different fate than that Kariya had planned for them. Along with Lady Kakizaki and the seven samurai—an appellation that, in spite of its inaccuracy, seemed to have stuck—who had planned her rescue, Lord Magistrate Yukari and members of her household, Minamo Kurosawa and her husband, Kaori Sakamoto—who had by that time recovered sufficiently to appear in public, as long as her faculties were not strained—and Lady Koyomi Mizuhara, were all invited to the Emperor's table. Although a mere gossip such as myself could not claim to know much of what took place at that great feast, one may assume that the fare was lavish and the drink plentiful, and that several of the guests—perhaps the Lord Magistrate, perhaps Tomonosuke, perhaps even Minamo Kurosawa—behaved in a most regrettable fashion. The festivities went on well into the night, for in the realm of Heaven, there is no time, and mere gold coins are scarcely an object. There was much to discuss—and much, no doubt, that still went unsaid, but was expressed in timeless fashion in glance and gesture. What words, or glances, or gestures, were exchanged, and between whom, is no business of mine.

It is said the among her many students, Viscount Kagura Kurosawa—on one of her travels through the countryside in search of new opponents—transmitted her two-sword style to an uncouth character by the name of Takezo. This individual would later attain some note, and by some accounts have dealings with Baiken and Inshun.

Kariya Kagetoki returned to Edo to bide his time. His reputation suffered no great loss over this strange twist of fate. Many years later, however, strange rumors surfaced that he had met his end—at the hand of a band of vagrants, no less, in search of some "samurai who smelled like sunflowers."

One can scarcely contemplate the fates the gods deal.

As for rumors, they are naturally of no more weight than seeds-pods drifting through the air on a summer's day. It was, nonetheless, also rumored, that after the events faithfully recorded here, these women and men that karma saw fit to bring together became great friends—even those of them who had been at mortal odds before. They were often seen in each other's company, paid calls, assisted those in need or celebrated together in times of fortune, observed with each other the sacramental rhythm of the seasons as time passes in this impermanent world.

How true it is, as the Tale of the Heike tells us, that the tolling of the bell at Gion reminds us that life is merely "a dream on a summer's night." But when our lives are touched by kindness, then, do they not become things too beautiful for words?

Too beautiful, indeed, for words; for it is easier, so deplorably easier, to describe with words man's strife, rather than his happiness! And so, with these words, this tale of mine must come to a close.

* * *

AN: _Next up: Everyone dies! Thanks for reading!  
_

_Just kidding. But thanks for reading anyway. Next up: notes, appendices, etcetera!_

_ A few notes for this chapter, though:_

_1) You have no idea how long I've been waiting to make that joke Osaka makes. You just have no idea._

_2) Later, she's quoting the Gospel of John. She probably heard it from a Christian in Nagasaki, where the missionary presence was strong (speaking of which, the "western poet" in Chpt. 13 is Matthew Arnold)._


	15. Notes

_So…was I right in assuming that review replies aren't working? If not, after I've got the last reviews, I'll add another chapter after this one, replying to and thanking you—you my wonderful, superlative readers. That's assuming you like hearing back from me. And that I get any more reviews. But assuming—! Anyway, SilverTurtle, you reviewed recently…did the reply go through?_

**The Breaking Waves: Notes**

_General_

It probably comes as no surprise to anyone that I'm a big fan of Tarantino's _Kill Bill_. I guess this story, like a lot of things I write, is similar—a love letter those who share my insane, irrational love of AzuDai, cheesy samurai movies and potentially erroneous Japanese history—or failing that, at least one of the above :-)

I didn't always have the bug. I've been obsessed with Japan as long as I can remember, but until recently my interest was more in contemporary culture, and I'd roll my eyes at the samurai buffs—until I discovered Yoshikawa's _Musashi_. I really recommend the book, less so (but still somewhat) its sexed-up manga adaptation _Vagabond_, which I think misses all the subtlety of the original work. I also ended up reading Musashi's _Book of Five Rings_ (would you believe it was in the Business section of the bookstore?), where the quote in chpt. 13 comes from. But so no one misses a tiny, stupid joke at the end, I should point out that Musashi's original name was Takezo.

_History_

If I get any of this wrong, I hope a more knowledgeable person will correct me. Ancient Japanese history can be divided into the Heian, Kamakura, Muromachi and Tokugawa periods. The Hein period (around 1000-ish) is where we get the Tale of Genji and a lot of old court poetry; at the time the Emperor and the noble class still had significant political power. Over the course of time, however, the military class rose to prominence (and the intervening period gives us the other great classical epic, the Tale of the Heike, about two warrior families), and at the end of the Muromachi period three successive warlords managed to unify Japan under the effective rule of the samurai. The new government was called the _bakufu_—literally "tent government," as in a military camp—and ruled from Edo (modern Tokyo), while the emperor remained in Kyoto. These men were Oda Nobunaga, Hideyoshi Toyotomi and Ieyasu Tokugawa—and Tokugawa rose to power by defeating the forces of Hideyoshi's son, Hideyori (misspelled in a few chapters as "Hidenori") at the Battle of Sekigahara. Miyamoto Musashi began his career as a swordsman shortly after Sekigahara, and The Breaking Waves is set roughly in the period between the battle and his rise to fame.

_Religion_

I'm taking a class on Japanese Religion this year, which is responsible for Osaka's character. I think it's worth pointing out that it's not unusual for a Japanese Buddhist, like Osaka, to have a rather broad religious view—incorporating Shinto and even Christianity, which was being introduced to Japan at that time. I always think it's sort of funny when I encounter the term God ("Okamisama") in Japanese books and films as if belief in God weren't at all incompatible with belief in the numerous "gods" of Shinto, and a whole host of buddhas and bodhisattvas—which I think is actually a sort of reasonable view, when you think about it. Basically, the Christian "either/or" of belief is historically unknown in Japan, and this remains the case to the present day. There's also a fair tradition both of overt "warrior priests," and priests who are secretly deadly martial artists or even spies (like that guy in Princess Mononoke).

_The Sources_

I'm a sucker for inside jokes. If any of you happen to be real samurai buffs, you can check your knowledge against this:

—Largely, Waves has this in common with the book it's "based" on: Yomi and Tomo, in their roles, bear some resemblance to Seijuro and Denshichiro Yoshioka; Chiyo sort of resembles Jotaro/Iori; Sakaki and Kagura both have a bit in common with Musashi—Kagura fights with two swords, whole Sakaki picks up his habit of arriving late (whether on purpose or not) for duels. The showdown between Sakaki and Kagura resembles the showdown between Musashi and Sasaki Kojiro as it's rendered by Yoshikawa—in some details. But it's probably Tomo, actually, who resembles Kojiro the most, with her oversized sword and bad manners.

—There's a duel on a windswept, dusty plain in Masaki Kobayashi's _Hara Kiri_ (a very good movie). Oyama's observation that "samurai honor only glosses the surface" also comes from _Hara Kiri_.

—Kurosawa's role as a wise, middle-aged sword instructor is sort of based on Toshiro Mifune's character in _Sword of Doom_ (a _very_ good movie).

—Osaka fights with a cane sword, like the blind masseuse Zatoichi.

—For those who hadn't known, Kagetoki Kariya is from the (very, _very_ good) series Samurai Champloo. With Kagura and Kaorin's duel, when I was thinking of ways to stage it, I also took my cue from an amazing Champloo duel that's fought in the rain (between Mugen and Sara). Also, while I didn't start watching Champloo until I was well into Waves, I find it funny how much my Yomi resembles a female Jin.

—Both on and off the subject, for those who hadn't known, the island where Sakaki and Kagura fight happens to share its name (and nothing more) with the setting of the infamous cult movie/book, Battle Royale.

—For all I love Kill Bill, there are only two Kill Bill references—when Osaka says "if you can land one blow on me, I'll call you master," and of course when Tomo says to Sakaki that they have "unfinished business." But then again, any reference to Kill Bill is probably a reference to something else.

The rest is all general: I'm sure we've all seen a cloaked ronin beat up some crooks who are threatening an innocent person.

Well, not in real life. You know what I mean.

_Closing_

I've been writing for a long time. If you happen to look at my other stories on this site (for your own safety _don't_—at least nothing dated before '04), you'll see it dates right back to the Paleolithic era. And if you happen to read that Baldur's Gate story, Fury, you'll know I'm not kidding when I say that a lot of what I write—both fanfiction and original stuff—is grotesquely, gut-splattering-ly (to borrow an adverb from Bill Watterson) violent. At the same time, I love Azumanga Daioh.

A lot of The Breaking Waves is about fighting, but there's very little real violence or bloodshed—looking back, I regret that there has to be that mention of death in the preliminaries, since I'd like it better if Kaorin's and Yomi's injuries were the only incidence. In any case, it's certainly less violent by a mile than most of the stuff I write, while still managing to have more fights and duels than anything else I've written, and in that respect I'm pleased with it.

Cheers,

and thanks, again (perhaps not for the last time), for reading,

Incanto (AKA Sister Vigilante), April 26, '06


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